Thirty  Years  In  Hell 

=  OR  — 

The  Confession  of  a  Drug  Fiend 


1 

i 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE  RET 
DUE  RET- 

DATE  RET 
DUE  RET- 

NOV  0  * 

1QQ0 

JAW  U  3  1 

B6i  

m  o  6  ?m 

i 

  FEB 

\  ym 

Form  No.  513, 
Rev.  1/84 

10001091845 

Thirty  Years  In  Hell 


OR 


The  Confessions  of  a  Drug  Fiend 


By  COL.  D.  F.  MAC  MARTIN 

Tulsa,  Oklahoma 


FROM  THE  PRESS  OF 

CAPPER  PRINTING  COMPANY 

TOPEKA,  KANSAS 


Copyrighted  1921 
by 

Col.  D.  F.  Mac  Martin 


INDEX 

PAGE 

Foreword   5 

Introductory  Narration   9 

chapter  PART  I 

I  The  Oklahoma  Opening   17 

II  My  First  Shot   32 

III  How  I  Became  a  Morphinomaniac  .     .     .     .  39 

IV  DeQuincey,  the  Dope   45 

V  Opium  Dreams   51 

VI  The  Radiance  of  Opium  Visions   ....  57 

VII  Under  the  Spell  of  Hyosceine  6d 

VIII  Opium  and  John  Barleycorn   77 

IX  Gradual  Reduction  Therapeutics  ....  80 

X  In  Liverpool   85 

XI  In  the  City  of  Glasgow   89 

XII  In  Africa,  The  Holy  Land,  Greece,  Italy  and 

France   93 

XIII  Pot  Pourri   104 

PART  II 

XIV  Doctor  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde   127 

XV  In  the  Sewers  of  Hell   137 

XVI  The  Little  Blind  Girl     .     .     .     .     .     .  147 

XVII  A  Latter-Day  Delilah   153 


4 


INDEX 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII  A  Hot  Town   165 

XIX  A  Corpse  for  a  Bedfellow     ......  172 

XX  The  Clock  Struck  Thirteen   177 

XXI  Almost  Involuntary  Manslaughter  .     .     ..  187 

XXII  Outside  the  Penitentiary  Walls  ....  190 

XXIII  A  Hold-Up  of  Town  Slops   193 

XXIV  The  Apotheosis  of  Morphine  Annie   .     .     .  199 
XXV  A  Morphine  Fiend  Is  Believed     ....  204 

XXVI  Too  Much  Hypodermic  Needle     ....  209 

XXVII  A  Night  in  Bugville   212 

XXVIII  Beauty  Without  Virtue  Is  a  Flower  With- 
out Perfume   219 

XXIX  Marooned  Between  the  Devil  and  the  Deep 

Sea   226 

XXX  A  Chloroformed  Jury   232 

XXXI  Slipping  One  Over  on  the  Judge  ....  238 

XXXII  Circumstantial  Evidence  ......  243 

XXXIII  May  the  Earth  Lie  Lightly  on  Thy  Grave  .  247 

XXXIV  What  Turned  My  Hair  White     .     .     .     .  250 
XXXV  The  Dope  Doctor   257 

XXXVI  A  Providential  Deliverance   259 

XXXVII  Was  It  Excusable  Homicide?   265 


FOREWORD 


An  ancient  author  tells  us  somewhere  with  the  tone  of  a 
pedagogue,  that  if  you  have  not  done  anything  worthy  of  being 
recorded,  at  least  write  something  worthy  of  being  read.  It  is 
a  precept  as  beautiful  as  a  diamond  cut  in  England;  but  it 
cannot  be  applied  to  me,  because  I  have  written  neither  a  novel 
nor  the  life  of  an  illustrious  character.  Worthy  or  not,  my  life 
is  my  subject  and  my  subject  is  my  life.  I  have  lived  without 
dreaming  that  I  should  take  a  fancy  to  write  these  confessions, 
and  for  that  very  reason  the  effort  may  claim  from  the  reader 
an  interest  and  a  sympathy  which  they  would  not  have  obtained. 

The  motif  to  arrange  in  tangible  form  a  narrative  of  reminis- 
cences, episodes  and  confessions  in  my  inflammatory  career 
occurred  to  me  while  undergoing  treatment  in  the  psycopathic 
ward  of  a  hospital  for  the  elimination  of  the  baneful  effects 
caused  by  chronic  addiction  to  that  insidious,  yet  seductive  nar- 
cotic drug  classified  in  the  pharmacopoeias  of  the  world  as 
morphine.  I  had  sowed  to  the  wind  and  reaped  the  whirlwind, 
and,  having  reached  the  fork  in  the  road,  I  irrevocably  resolved 
that  henceforth  by  an  iron-bound  code  of  conduct,  I  should 
leave  the  white  lights  forever,  and  pursue  the  narrow  way  along 
the  street  which  is  called  straight  which  would  finally  bring  me 
to  the  house  beautiful.  During  the  days  of  listless,  lackadaisical 
indolence  in  this  locus  penitentiae,  I  found  time  to  delve  into  the 
dark  corridors  of  the  past  in  search  of  data.  I  disinterred  them 
from  the  tomb  of  the  long  ago  from  the  jejeune  period  of  my 
life  up  to  the  present  tick  of  the  clock,  after  having  passed  a 
few  years  since,  the  half  century  mark  on  life's  pilgrimage. 

The  record  here  partakes  of  the  fluctuations  of  my  own 
thoughts  and  feelings,  treating  of  scenes  before  me,  the  whole 
being  denuded  of  any  tincture  of  chimera  or  even  the  cloak  of 
affectation.  It  embodies  a  recital  of  years  of  confirmed  enslave- 
ment to  morphine,  cocoaine,  chloral,  hasheesh  and  other  toxics 
which  obtained  over  me  the  most  incomprehensible  ascendancy. 
It  embraces  seasons  of  ineffable  felicity,  inexpressible  verve  and 
consummate  bliss,  blended  with  unspeakable  misery  and  unpar- 
donable moral  turpitude.    Framed  by  nature  devoid  of  the 


6 


FOREWORD 


capacity  of  self-will,  it  is  little  wonder  that  I  plunged  head-first 
into  the  wildest  caprices  and  became  a  prey  to  the  most  ungov- 
ernable cacoethes  and  passions.  From  me  in  an  instant,  all 
virtue  dropped  as  a  mantle  and  became  as  wax  and  melted  in 
her  own  fire,  and  I  steeped  myself  in  moral  leprosy. 

My  sensitive  life  has  been  a  fiery  pulse  of  sin.  Its  chords 
have  been  played  upon  by  every  passing  wind  of  fancy  and  folly, 
and  especially  by  slaying  myself  with  honeyed  drugs.  I  served 
the  god  of  opium  for  thirty  years.  For  three  decades  I  traveled 
the  untrammeled  wilds,  keeping  my  ear  close  to  the  breast  of 
nature,  drifting  like  a  wind-blown  sunflower,  a  wanderer  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  paraphrase  is  true  that  an  assassin 
kills  but  once,  but  drugs  killed  me  slowly  with  all  the  horrors 
of  despair  and  misery  into  which  they  plunged  me.  The  game 
iu  like  playing  poker  with  the  devil  when  he  has  the  usual  house 
percentage  and  five  aces  in  his  deck.  Yet,  while  in  its  indul- 
gence I  felt  the  pangs  of  every  hell,  I  also  enjoyed  all  heavens 
here  below.  Thru  it  all,  I  have  lived  in  a  dream  and  am  now 
dying  a  victim  to  the  horrors  and  the  mystery  of  all  sublunary 
visions,  while  my  mind  is  besieged  by  tumultuous  and  crying 
memories. 

While  a  bounden  captive  in  the  gyves  of  opium,  my  wander- 
lust propensities  and  vagrant  inclinations  were  gratified.  Im- 
pelled by  the  zest  of  living  into  strange  adventure,  I  wandered, 
like  Ulysses,  thru  different  countries,  saw  many  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world  abroad  and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes 
of  life.  This  was  not  in  search  of  the  golden  fleece  as  either  a 
soldier  of  fortune  or  chance,  or  as  a  torchbearer  of  the  world,  but 
with  the  idea  of  studying  them  with  a  philosophic  eye  in  this 
strange  and  small  world. 

The  canvas  is  a  picture  of  life's  other  side  in  the  servitude  of 
opium  and  the  quaffing  of  poison  from  golden  goblets.  Tantalus 
himself  could  have  tasted  no  bitterer  wormwood  nor  was  Orestes 
ever  haunted  by  furies  so  great. 

Should  anything  de  trop  be  detected  here  and  there,  from 
this  idiomatic  painting  of  facts,  I  ask  the  charitable  indulgence 
of  the  reader.  It  is  original  matter  put  down  in  an  original 
manner.  I  am  depending  solely  upon  my  memory  and  out  of  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  which  the  dark  tides  of  time  have  deposited 
upon  its  shores  I  embellish  upon  these  pages.  It  is  a  waking 
man  only  who  can  tell  his  dreams,  and  in  the  resume  thereof,  1 
have  lived  in  the  glory  of  youthful  pastimes,  later  days  of  trial 
and  woe  and  horror — days  of  swiftly  oncoming  age  and  relentless 
penury,  purchased  at  the  price  of  lost  illusions.  My  life  has  been 
one  veritable  Saturnalia  of  "drunken  prophecies,  libels  and 


FOREWORD 


7 


dreams. ' '  May  the  unfolding  of  moral  ulcers  out  of  these  burnt- 
out  fires,  published  without  morbid  vanity,  blaze  a  warning  to 
the  youths  of  tomorrow  before  I  shall  have  stepped  upon  the 
broken  arches  of  the  bridge  of  life.  The  horrible  catastrophes 
that  sometimes  happen  to  the  vicious  are  as  salutary  to  others  by 
their  warning  as  the  most  brilliant  rewards  of  the  virtuous  are 
by  their  example.  In  fact  much  of  the  allurement  that  is  found 
in  blazing  the  vermillion  trail  of  an  adventurous  voluptuary, 
may  be  found  in  its  exhilaration  and  ease.  In  my  case,  the  god 
morphia  promised  pleasure  and  finally  produced  pain.  This  is 
designed  to  portray  how  unprofitable  and  demoralizing  it  is  for 
a  man  to  risk  his  immortal  soul  in  the  attempt  to  get  a  froth  of 
fleeting  joy  out  of  one  day  of  the  phosphorescent  splendors  of 
artificial  pleasure  and  suffer  ten-fold  thereafter.  Late  reflec- 
tions upon  my  dark  days  of  error  have  unveiled  for  me  many  a 
dark  depth  in  the  human  heart.  I  write  these  confessions, 
penned  without  reticence  and  without  penitence,  in  the  hope  that 
my  sad  example  may  prevent  any  over-confident  and  headstrong 
persons  who  may  chance  to  read  it,  from  following  the  disastrous 
path  of  self-will  which  led  me  into  the  misery  which  I  endured 
and  which  may  plunge  me  hereafter  into  punishments  which  I 
dare  not  think  of. 

Vanity  is  a  soul  of  smaller  vices  and  the  elasticity  of  my 
conceit — "more  rich  in  matter  than  in  words" — is  such  that  I 
am  thrasonical  enough  to  classify  the  effort  in  the  literary  niche 
with  "DeQuincey's  Confessions  of  An  English  Opium  Eater," 
which  advanced  to  five  editions,  the  first  of  which  appeared  in 
1822,  the  last  in  1856.  The  succeeding  years  have  been  con- 
spicuously silent  so  far  as  any  literature  is  concerned  throwing 
enlightenment  upon  a  topic  at  present  very  prominent  in  the 
minds  of  all  who  are  solicitous  for  the  preservation  of  the  mental 
and  physical  vigor  of  the  race. 

I  adhere  closely  to  the  fact  in  every  particular  and  endeavor 
to  give  each  thing  its  true  character.  In  so  doing,  I  have  been 
obliged  occasionally  to  use  strong  and  coarse  expressions,  and 
in  some  instances  to  give  scenes  which  may  be  painful  to  nice 
feelings. 

For  the  free  use  of  the  perpendicular  pronoun,  I  offer  the 
soft  impeachment.  I  nurse  no  defense  for  the  exchequer  of 
words,  for  the  veritable  Thesaurus  Verborum  with  which  the 
work  is  interspersed;  but  for  the  slang — slang,  the  bastard 
dialect,  the  enigmatical  language  of  darkness  and  misery — which 
appears  throughout,  I  offer  no  apology. 

With  such  a  retrospect,  I  shall  be  pardoned  for  seeking  relief, 
however  slight  and  temporary,  in  the  weakness  of  these  rambling 


8 


FOREWORD 


details,  collected  from  the  mosaic  of  events  in  my  life,  with 
opium  always  as  the  central  theme.  These  may  appear  utterly 
trivial  and  even  ridiculous  in  themselves,  yet  they  assume  to  my 
fancy  of  adventitious  importance  as  connected  with  time  and 
place  and  which  in  full  contributed  to  the  general  reduction 
which  finally  overwhelmed  me. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTORY  NARRATION 


A  WORM  OF  THE  ABYSMAL  GHETTO 


"Some  men  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness  and 
some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them." — Twelfth  Night. 

I  am  a  plain  blunt  man  like  Mark  Antony  of  Cleopatra's 
time — a  plain  man  of  affairs  and  mostly  of  this  world.  I  am  a 
citizen  of  the  world ;  I  am  four  hundred  years  old ;  I  have  been 
an  inhabitant  of  Hell,  and  my  home  now  is  in  the  City  of  Broken 
Old  Men. 

I  was  not  bred  in  the  purple,  nor  do  I  declare  that  I  am  a 
scion  of  nobility  and  puissance ;  neither  do  I  pretend  that  thru 
the  natural  canals  of  my  physiognomy  there  gallops  the  royal 
ichor.  At  one  time  in  my  existence  I  became  curious  enough  to 
shake  the  branches  of  the  genealogical  tree,  and  from  this  shak- 
ing I  found  that  the  illustrious  name  of  my  pater  appeared 
neither  in  Burke 's  Peerage  nor  in  the  Almanach  de  Gotha.  If  the 
patronymic  is  in  the  log  of  the  Mayflower  or  in  the  Chronicles 
of  the  Yellowplush,  I  neither  know  nor  care ;  for,  as  a  matter  of 
frozen  fact  spotless  Puritan  pedigrees  and  the  general  eclat  of 
lineage  are  usually  a  collection  of  fairy  tales,  and  our  arboreal 
ancestors  are  good  enough.  What  matter  is  it  of  whom  anyone 
descended?  An  ancestor's  character  is  no  excuse  to  a  man's  ill 
actions,  but  an  aggravation  of  his  degeneracy. 

If  heavenly  stars  control  auspicious  births,  there  were  no 
three  stars  in  Orion's  belt  when  I  was  born.  I  was  not  ushered 
in  by  any  mysterious  portent  in  the  sky.  When  my  spirit  flew 
in  feathers,  my  playground  was  Paradise  Alley,  Poverty  Row 
and  the  Five  Points.  I  was  the  runagate  of  a  poor  family,  a 
child  of  the  mud;  a  bambina  germinated  in  the  slums  of  the 
East  Side.  From  birth  I  was  an  enfant  gate,  up  to  the  time  that 
I  developed  into  an  enfant  terrible,  and  I  ultimately  became  an 
enfant  perdu,  undoubtedly  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock. 

I  entertain  not  the  penumbra  of  a  doubt  that  there  was  an 
unmistakable  strain  of  inebriety  in  me,  and  this  was  blended 


10 


INTRODUCTORY  NARRATION 


with  the  virus  of  hedonism.  There  was  a  taint  of  vice,  whose 
strong  corruption  inhabits  our  frail  blood.  It  is  said  that  the 
best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults,  and  for  the  most  part  become 
much  more  the  better  by  being  a  little  bad.  It  is  also  said  that 
the  good  outweighs  the  bad  in  every  individual.  It  is  my  dictum 
that  youth  and  folly  go  together,  each  sweetening  the  other,  and 
I  believe  that  the  greatest  fool  is  he  who  would  have  gone  thru 
life  entirely  without  folly.  If  the  law  of  heredity  is  accountable 
for  my  alliance  with  the  life  of  a  hedonist,  a  voluptuary,  a  licen- 
tiate, a  variant,  an  extremist  in  everything  vile,  in  fact  a  moral 
butterfly  of  non-resisting  power  against  the  defilements  of  earth 
and  the  seductions  of  the  world,  then  the  whole  retrospect  is  a 
mournful  commentary. 

The  law  of  heredity,  however,  which  requires  that  the  de- 
scendents  shall  suffer  by  the  faults  and  profit  by  the  virtues  of 
their  ancestors,  comprises  truths  which  are  no  longer  disputed. 
They  shine  forth,  visible  to  the  eyes  of  all.  The  child  of  a 
drunkard  will  bear  the  burden  of  the  paternal  vice  all  his  life 
long,  from  the  day  of  his  birth  to  that  of  his  death,  in  body  and 
in  mind.  One  might  say  that  by  this  irrefutable  example, 
Nature  had  intended  ostentatiously  to  affirm  and  manifest  the 
implacable  character  of  her  law,  as  tho'  to  make  us  understand 
that  she  takes  no  account  whatever  of  our  conceptions  of  justice 
and  injustice,  and  that  she  acts  in  accordance  with  an  unvarying 
principle  in  all  these  obscure  circumstances  into  which  we  are 
powerless  to  follow  the  inextricable  windings  of  her  will. 

This  example,  if  we  had  no  other,  would  be  enough  to  brand 
that  inhuman  will  with  infamy.  There  does  not  exist  a  law 
which  is  more  repugnant  to  our  reason,  to  our  sense  of  respon- 
sibility, nor  one  which  does  a  deeper  injury  to  our  trust  in  the 
universe  and  the  unknown  spirit  that  rules  it.  Of  all  the  in- 
justices of  life,  this  is  the  most  glaring  and  the  least  compre- 
hensible. For  most  of  the  others  we  find  excuses  or  explana- 
tions; but  when  we  remember  that  a  new-born  child,  a  child 
which  did  not  ask  to  be  born,  should  from  the  moment  of  in- 
haling its  first  breath  of  air,  be  smitten  with  an  irremediable 
insolvency,  with  a  ferocious,  irrevocable  sentence  and  with  evils 
which  it  will  drag  to  the  grave,  it  seems  to  me  that  not  one  of 
the  most  hateful  tyrants  that  history  has  cursed  would  have 
dared  to  do  what  Nature  does  quietly  every  day.  Heredity  is  that 
monstrous  cloud  which  darkened  the  whole  vision  of  mediaeval 
theologians  and  in  the  light  of  modern  science,  with  the  tender- 
ness of  the  modern  conscience  and  with  the  sense  of  justice  and 
proportion  in  which  sin  is  today  viewed,  it  is  stilll  that  monstrous 
cloud. 


INTRODUCTORY  NARRATION 


11 


Speaking  for  myself,  I  may  say  that  I  became  a  butterfly 
with  wings  dusted  with  vice.  In  fact,  my  precocity  in  vice  was 
awful.  My  whole  soul  seemed  stamped  to  the  core  with  volup- 
tuousness. My  youth  I  melted  down  in  different  beds  of  vice 
and  lust,  in  youthful  levities  and  in  pleasure-feeding  frivolities. 
From  my  earliest  memories  I  recall  that  my  animal  economy  was 
in  harmony  with  not  the  taste  alone,  but  the  effect  of  rum.  At 
the  jejeune  period,  I  could  handle  red  liquor  like  a  juggler  does 
a  handful  of  hoops.  I  commenced  to  hit  the  ball  very  young. 
I  was  brought  up  in  the  gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life  and 
allowed  to  go  with  a  loose  rein.  I  early  tried  my  wings,  and  met 
every  facility  for  low  dissipation  in  the  abysmal  dives  of  the 
Bowery  and  the  East  Side,  and  abandoned  myself  to  it  with 
frenzied  eagerness.  I  was  a  son  of  Belial,  and  fell  most  violently 
a  prey  to  the  tumultuous  vultures  of  stern  passion  and  the 
libertinism  sanctioned  by  polite  society.  As  a  boozehound  I 
undoubtedly  lushed  my  share  of  the  " growler"  and  drank  to 
the  depth  of  its  dregs.  Scouting  the  idea,  of  introducing  heart 
disease  to  human  credulity,  I  unblushingly  say  that  if  there  is  a 
man  living  who  has  drunk  more  deeply,  he  is  not  a  man  whom 
I  envy.   And  this  declaration  is  not  an  hypnotic  belief. 

To  one  like  myself  psychologically  weak  in  the  flesh  and  so 
vulnerable  to  temptation,  the  fact  becomes  clear  to  the  under- 
standing, how  I  wantonly  surrendered  myself  to  a  whirl  of  fri- 
volity and  descended  to  a  vortex  of  thoughtless  folly  in  my  sea- 
sons of  dissipation  and  became,  ipso  facto,  a  slave  to  the  juice  of 
the  poppy  and  its  chemical  alkaloids.  I  was  hence  seduced  into 
this  withering  vice  by  reason  of  a  neurotic  malaise,  intensified  by 
excesses  in  wine — the  unpardonable  sin,  the  only  crime  for  which 
heaven  could  afford  no  mercy.  I  fear  that  the  subtlety  of  my 
logic  may  mislead,  for  in  endeavoring  to  be  concise,  I  may 
become  obscure.  It  is  my  purpose  to  say  that  when  rum  became 
an  inactive  agent  to  evenly  balance  the  animal  functions  after  a 
protracted  debauch  and  whiskey  sours  aggravated  the  physical 
status,  opium  was  resorted  to  as  my  Fidus  Achates. 

What  magic  was  thus  worked  in  the  veins ! 

What  a  transformation  from  nerve-racking  tension  to  phys- 
ical relaxation  and  mental  exhilaration ! 

The  poppy  of  the  Orient,  the  poppy  of  Turkey  and  the  poppy 
of  the  Persian  Gulf  appears  to  the  naked  eye  as  harmless  as  the 
most  innocent  garden  rose,  but  when  the  unriped  capsules  of 
what  is  called  the  somniferum  papaver  are  incised,  a  concrete 
milky  exudation  is  obtained  by  chemical  precipitation.  This  is 
the  juice,  this  is  the  salt,  this  is  the  crystal,  this  is  the  brown 
opium  that  is  capable  of  decimating  the  ranks  of  humanity,  of 


12 


INTRODUCTORY  NARRATION 


hurling  death  to  the  sons  of  men.  It  is  certainly  good  to  look 
at,  a  flower  in  outward  beauty,  but  never  was  poison  and  treach- 
ery more  sweetly  concealed.  Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  small 
flower,  poison  hath  residence  and  medicine  power.  It  is  full  of 
what  is  called  Punic  Faith.  It  is  as  deadly  as  some  gigantic 
tropical  forest  abloom  with  open-petaled  poisonous  flowers  that 
snap  shut  on  and  devour  whatever  touches  them.  It  is  a  poison 
more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
opium,  using  this  term  in  its  generic  sense,  is  the  most  potential 
agency  to  bring  about  a  state  of  ineffable  quietness  and  the  abso- 
lute lulling  of  the  nervous  centers,  of  any  medication  that  the 
dispensary  provides.  Well  has  it  been  put  that  "It  is  a  soft 
swoon  of  exquisite  indolence" — an  hypnotic  lullaby  of  the  soft 
susurrus.  Under  its  dominion,  one  lolls  in  an  atmosphere  of 
mental  clarification  and  physical  composure.  Gauged  by  the 
dosage,  soporific  and  hynotic  sleep  succeeds,  attended  by  most 
exquisite  and  soothing  dreams.  The  whole  animal  economy  is  in 
a  state  of  the  most  transcendent  placidity.  Under  the  Circean 
umbrage  of  opium,  the  subject  is  as  unruffled  as  the  periphery 
of  a  glassy  sea,  or  the  frictionless  face  of  a  sun-kissed  lake  in 
June. 

"0  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowering  face. 
Did  ever  dragon  keep  as  fair  a  cave?" 

Opium  is  a  narcotic  that  primarily  produces  pleasurable  sen- 
sations. This  is  the  physiological  effect.  The  secondary  effects 
are  toxic  to  one  not  tolerated  to  it.  The  remedial  offices  per- 
formed by  this  one  drug  are  various.  Opium  is  at  once  a 
stimulant,  an  anodyne,  an  astringent,  a  hypnotic,  an  anaes- 
thetic, an  analgesic,  a  sedative,  a  quiescent,  a  soporific,  a  nar- 
cotic. Chemically  blended,  it  is  a  cerebro-spinal  depressant,  an 
anti-spasmodic,  an  anti-phlogistic. 

Truly,  it  is  not  a  thing  of  earth,  but  must  have  been  stolen 
from  some  Heavenly  Arcadia. 

Thus  primarily  thru  the  instrumentality  of  the  FIEND  IN- 
TEMPERANCE, I  was  for  the  period  of  upwards  of  thirty  years 
a  bounden  slave  to  this  flattering  poison,  administered  subcu- 
taneously  by  means  of  a  perfect  apparatus  that  man  discovered 
but  yesterday,  an  instrument  of  immense  value  to  himself,  but 
which  has  existed  among  creatures  which  man  has  seen  fit  to 
describe  as  lowly  and  repulsive  viperine  snakes  for  ages — the 
hypodermic  syringe.  Therein  I  was  passion's  slave.  I  was 
addicted  to  it  not  only  in  the  U.  S.  A.,  but  the  mandragora  had 
me  body  and  soul  as  a  citizen  of  the  world  in  cosmopolitan  ven- 


INTRODUCTORY  NARRATION 


13 


tures  from  the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Snn  in  the  North,  to  the 
mangrove  swamps  of  the  Solomon  Islands  in  the  South;  from 
the  Occident  to  the  Orient;  from  the  Himalayas  to  the  endless 
walls  of  China;  from  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  to  the  glitter- 
ing minarets  of  the  Holy  City;  from  the  ice-bound  waterways 
of  the  Arctic  to  the  salt  flood  of  the  Antarctic. 

It  was  my  bete  noir,  my  vade  mecum.  It  first  became  a 
passion,  then  a  hobby  and  finally  a  monomania. 

On  the  narrow  canvas  of  these  few  pages  must  be  outlined 
the  crowded  incidents  of  my  life  as  a  drug  fiend,  fearful  pages 
in  the  record  of  my  existence. 

In  this  volume  I  have  assembled  some  chapters  on  narcotic 
indoctrination,  and  others  which  deal  with  the  grotesque  and 
terrible,  blended  with  the  farcical,  the  ludicrous  and  the  emo- 
tional— scenes  of  terror  and  pictures  of  despair,  crime,  insanity 
and  disordered  fantasy,  all  from  deepest  tragedy  to  lightest 
comedy.  They  comprise  some  of  the  skeletons  danced  out  from 
the  Chamber  of  Horrors,  the  ghosts  of  yesterday  that  have 
haunted  my  footsteps  as  avenging  sybils.  They  are  episodes  of 
action  that  have  lived  in  my  mind  and  incidents  of  repose  that 
have  recurred  with  no  less  force  thru  sunshine  and  sorrow,  days 
of  happiness  and  days  of  blood.  The  asbestos  is  rolled  up,  and 
before  you  is  Col.  D.  F.  Mac  Martin,  who  will,  without  the  con- 
straint of  conventionality,  serve  the  good  gravy  himself. 


Part  I 

The  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Narcotics 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  OKLAHOMA  OPENING 


"There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  its  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  spent  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 
Upon  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat, 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 
Or  lose  our  ventures." 

— Julius  Caesar. 

Although  life  is  a  more  incredible  romance  than  any  other, 
yet  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  the  life  of  a  single  unit  of 
humanity  could  be  of  interest  to  the  world,  even  conceding  that 
such  a  life  has  had  some  strange  turns  in  its  roads.  This  may 
be  the  reason  that  most  writers  of  reminiscences  try  to  be  amus- 
ing; and  yet  it  may  be  that  this  endeavor  of  theirs  comes  from 
the  revolt  against  the  hard  realities  of  their  own  career,  which 
few  care  to  face  in  memory.  There  may  be  also  another  less 
pleasing  element  in  the  reluctance  of  many  to  speak  of  the  past. 
Those  who  are  chiefly  interesting  because  of  their  struggles, 
often  say  little  about  them  and  dwell  on  their  successes.  They 
have  never  discovered  that  their  only  real  triumph  is  in  the  fight 
they  seek  to  forget.  Success  means  a  permanent  memory  which 
effaces  every  other  recollection.  Success  is  not  entirely  rose- 
colored  and  in  such  memories  there  is  often  a  bitter-sweet  flavor ; 
but  what  the  world  calls  success  is  often  wholly  bitter  in  that  it 
comes  too  late,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  no  ambition  is  fully  real- 
ized, at  least  not  in  this  nether  world  and  no  paradise  becomes 
earthly  in  our  age. 

On  this  wide  and  universal  theater  of  the  world  my  life  has 
been  adventurous  both  in  days  of  grim-visaged  war  as  well  as  in 


18 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  weak,  piping  times  of  peace.  I  have  practiced  the  most 
elevating  profession  in  the  whole  realm  of  sciences.  As  one  of 
the  sons  of  Ishmael,  those  of  the  restless  feet  and  the  far  dreams, 
I  have  been  a  wanderer  extraordinary  and  in  nomadic  travel, 
have  girdled  the  ball.  In  the  U.  S.  A.  I  have  reviewed,  I  feel 
infinite  relief  in  announcing,  more  water  tanks  and  have  hit  the 
geographical  trail  in  circumgyratory  peregrinations  far  in  excess 
of  the  boastful  A  No.  1  and  away  ahead  of  the  thrasonical  cal- 
culations of  either  Chicago  Slim,  Frisco  Red  or  New  York 
Whitey.  Parbleu,  to  be  serious,  a  detail  of  where  I  have  not  been 
would  claim  less  time  than  an  exhibit  of  the  map  hallowed  by 
my  restless  trail.  And  particularly  in  this  retrospect  have  I  con- 
cluded that  this  world  is  a  small  one  after  all.  With  me  life  has 
been  a  ripping  game  in  the  star  dust  upon  the  stage  of  the 
world's  fools.  Of  the  music  and  poetry  of  life,  I  have  enjoyed 
an  engorgement,  of  human  miseries,  the  afflictions  of  Job.  With 
me  nature  has  been  prodigal  in  the  lavishment  of  her  high 
cerebral  gifts,  but  lacking  in  the  bestowal  of  the  golden  largesses 
of  Pandora's  box.  Endowed  with  excellent  parts,  born  with 
world  ideas,  overflowing  with  the  zest  of  life  and  inclined  by 
nature  to  industry,  with  every  guarantee  of  an  honorable  and 
distinguished  career  born  of  lofty  aspirations,  the  lower  elements 
in  my  soul  dragged  me  down,  and  I  trod  along  the  path  that  1 
had  sowed  with  the  thorn  and  thistle  for  my  feet,  but  which 
should  have  been  covered  with  the  wealth  of  princes.  In  my 
heart  I  had  a  thousand  modest  and  unrealizable  desires  which 
gilded  my  existence  with  imaginary  hopes,  and,  like  Thoreau,  I 
regretted  not  that  I  had  so  little,  but  that  I  required  so  much. 
Fortune 's  tender  arm  never  favored  me  with  a  clasp,  and  I  have 
taken  her  buffets  and  rewards  with  equal  thanks.  Most  de- 
cidedly have  I  seen  the  nakedness  and  emptiness  of  life.  As 
destiny  is  made  up  of  cross  roads,  I  have  lived  the  life  of  chance 
in  her  dark  mountains.  The  world  is  full  of  fools  and  I  am  no 
exception.  It  is  paraphrased  in  the  gospel  according  to  St. 
Matthew  that  many  are  called,  but  that  few  are  chosen,  and  like 
the  eminent  Southern  lawyer,  nameless  here  forevermore,  who 
longed  for  this  epitaph  to  be  engraved  upon  a  shingle  after 
nature's  debt  had  been  paid,  "Here  lies  one  who  might  have 
been  anything,  but  who  chose  to  be  nothing,"  so  I,  having  been 
one  of  the  called,  chose  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  and 
recked  not  my  own  reed. 

Psychologically  a  hedonist  and  by  nature  a  vagabond,  what 
remarkable  experiences,  what  singular  passages  and  the  really 
serious  events  in  a  life  at  all  times  strange  and  eventful  while 
drugged  with  opium,  I  unblushingly  record. 


THIRTY  YEAR  IS  IN  HELL 


19 


After  graduation  from  Cornell,  where  pebbles  are  polished, 
diamonds  are  dimmed,  silk  purses  are  made  out  of  sow's  ears 
and  round  pegs  are  made  to  fit  into  square  holes,  I  faced  the 
world.  In  this  knowledge-box  I  knelt  to  the  professor,  had 
myself  vaccinated  for  a  lawyer  and  had  finally  glued  to  my 
brow  the  fadeless  laurel  of  Polymnia.  This  was  possibly  the 
early  choice  of  a  doubtful  chance ;  and  believing  that  the  star  of 
empire  pointed  to  the  West,  I  jogged  thither  and  found  myself 
a  briefless  barrister  in  1  'Bleeding  Kansas." 

About  this  time  the  promised  land — Oklahoma — than  which 
no  finer  tract  in  the  nation  existed  out  of  doors,  was  to  be 
opened  to  public  settlement  under  the  homestead  laws  of  the 
United  States  and  April  22nd,  1889,  12  o'clock  noon,  Central 
Standard  time,  was  designated  as  the  fixed  time  for  intending 
settlers  to  initiate  their  entries  and  settle  upon  the  land.  Here, 
in  this  new  Utopia,  was  offered  a  chance  for  me  to  retrieve 
fallen  fortunes  and  to  forget  for  the  nonce,  the  heavy  train  of 
adversity  and  crooked  fortune  with  which  I  was  crossed  in  the 
vaunted  land  of  sunflowers,  sunshine  and  sons  of  guns. 

This  rush  into  Oklahoma  gave  birth  to  a  new  word  in  the 
legal  glossary,  to-wit  the  word  1 1  sooner. ' '  The  word  represented 
one  who  had  entered  the  Territory  in  violation  of  the  executive 
proclamation  opening  the  country  to  settlement  in  pursuance  of 
the  Act  of  March  2nd,  1889,  in  advance  of  the  time  fixed  therein. 
Hence  it  was  that  numbers  of  these  prospective  settlers  became 
"sooners"  and  were  subsequently  adjudged  disqualified  by  the 
courts  as  entry  men. 

Leaving  the  northern  boundary  line  of  this  coveted  land,  I 
landed  a  few  hours  after  12  o'clock  upon  the  townsite  of  what 
is  now  Oklahoma  City  on  this  memorable  day,  and  I  mingled 
with  the  picturesque  rush  of  settlers  looking  for  land,  a  new 
home  and  a  rise  in  the  world. 

This  opening  drew  great  shoals  of  people.  Some  of  them 
were  sui  generis,  others  were  not  sui  generis.  They  were  so 
diverse  that  there  was  no  rank  or  file. 

Some  of  the  peculiarities  of  some  of  these  characters  are 
described  in  the  frank  biographies  of  those  two  gentlemen  who 
executed  a  little  commission  for  King  Richard  III  in  which  two 
royal  princes  were  concerned.  In  distant  parts  of  the  continent 
they  had  left  families,  creditors  and  in  some  instances  even 
officers  of  justice  perplexed  and  lamenting.  There  were  hus- 
bands who  had  deserted  their  own  wives — and  in  some  extreme 
cases  even  the  wives  of  others — for  this  haven  of  refuge.  Nor 
could  the  fact  be  detected  from  the  personal  carriage  and  gen- 
eral exterior  whether  they  were  or  were  not  named  as  defendants 


20  THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


or  co-respondents  in  the  counts  of  this  general  indictment. 
Really  some  of  the  best  men  had  the  worst  antecedents,  some  of 
the  worst  rejoiced  in  a  spotless  puritan  pedigree. 

The  spectacular  array  included  the  Kansas  Jayhawker,  the 
Arkansaw  Reuben  Glue,  shaking  with  the  buck  ague;  the  Mis- 
souri puke,  the  Texas  Ranger,  the  Illinois  sucker,  et  at.  There 
were  nesters,  horse  thieves,  train  robbers,  high-jackers,  bank 
raiders,  yeggmen,  ragamuffins  and  vagabonds,  brand  blotters, 
broncho  busters,  sheep  herders,  cow  punchers,  spoofers,  bull 
whackers,  range  riders,  minute  jacks,  wildcatters,  fourflushers, 
Chevalrie  d'industrie,  outlanders,  mountebanks,  confidence  men, 
sand  lotters  and  proletariats,  sun-chasers,  blown-up  suckers,  fire- 
eaters,  camp  followers,  tenderfeet,  land  whales,  butterfly-chasers, 
bubble-blowers,  remittance  men,  blue-sky  promoters,  sour-doughs, 
ticket-of-leavers,  fellows  with  nicked  reputations,  geezers  who 
had  just  been  liberated  from  the  hulks  and  had  ugly  corners  in 
their  lives  to  live  down.  There  were  muleskinners  from  Texas 
and  Hi  Skinners  from  Bingville.  There  were  spellbinders  from 
Kansas  and  highbinders  from  Missouri.  There  was  Piute 
Charley,  Cold  Deck  Mike,  Alibi  Pete,  Alkali  Ike,  Comanche 
Hank,  False  Alarm  Andy,  Poker  Jim,  Rattlesnake  Jack,  Six- 
shooter  Bill  and  Cactus  Sam.  There  were  marksmen  who  were 
quick  on  the  draw  and  who  could  throw  a  half  dollar  in  the  air 
and  clip  it  with  a  bullet  from  their  revolvers  three  times  out  of 
five,  or  clip  a  pigeon  in  its  swift  flight,  an  accuracy  of  marks- 
manship born  of  amusement  at  clipping  the  buds  off  the  twigs 
of  trees.  There  were  cowboys  who  could  ride  a  buck-jumping 
mustang  anywhere  on  earth.  Among  these  prospective  settlers 
were  ancient  maidens,  fainting  Berthas,  wappened  widows, 
withered  amazons.  There  were  scoundrels  and  camouflage 
artists — bastard  scum  of  the  earth  and  spawn  of  the  devil  who 
would  not  scruple  to  take  unfair  opportunities  of  their  next  door 
neighbors,  glib  and  slippery  creatures,  together  with  a  homo- 
geneous smear  of  other  shorthorns.  There  was  also  stranded 
humanity,  scum  and  offscourings  and  human  birds  of  passage  in 
every  stage  of  shipwrecked  penury. 

About  the  early  days  of  Oklahoma  writers  have  embalmed 
facts  in  the  immortality  of  prose  and  poets  have  sung  in  the 
perpetuity  of  verse.  This  occurred  for  the  most  part  in  the 
early  days,  and  is  my  apology  for  embellishing  here  the  resurrec- 
tion of  a  corpse  too  dead  to  skin  and  ordinarily  it  would  be 
cruelty  to  animals  to  thus  revivify  it.  Therefore  by  your  gra- 
cious pleasure  while  you  quietly  sit  upon  your  pillows,  I  want  to 
feebly  paint  a  picture  of  canned  thoughts  in  their  natural  gar- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


21 


ments  in  the  livery  of  mere  words,  simultaneously  giving  fresh 
costumes  to  the  actors. 

History  has  never  at  any  time  recorded  an  opening  of  govern- 
ment land  wherein  there  was  brought  together  such  a  motley 
colony  of  gamblers,  pimps,  cut-throats,  refugees,  demi-mondaines, 
bootleggers  and  crooks  of  both  high  and  low  degree.  To  guard 
against  indiscriminate  violence  to  person  and  property  in  the 
absence  of  constituted  tribunals  (except  the  United  States  courts 
in  the  Indian  Territory,  which  were  not  vested  with  plenary 
powers)  martial  law  was  proclaimed  and  a  company  of  United 
States  Infantry  was  stationed  on  the  Military  Reservation  ad- 
joining the  townsite.  The  police  of  the  Territory  was  repre- 
sented by  the  marshals,  who  appointed  their  own  deputies,  some 
honest  and  some  with  neither  attribute  of  honesty  nor  truth.  In 
fact,  some  of  these  deputy  marshals  were  more  crooked  than  the 
actual  outlaws  and  some  were  accomplices  of  these  outlaws. 
Among  the  Indians  of  the  territories,  there  were  strict  and 
curious  laws  for  their  government.  Notwithstanding  these  bul- 
warks, murders  were  rife  and  the  ■  'bad  man"  who  couldn't  c  ?t 
death  notches  in  the  stock  of  his  carbine  indicating  the  getti  ig 
of  his  man  every  morning  before  breakfast,  was  considered  as 
scabbing  on  the  job  and  devested  in  the  coterie  of  membership 
as  units  of  gunmen.  The  highest  law  was  ex  necessitu,  the  law 
of  the  gun.  The  United  States  Commissioners  of  the  Federal 
Court  were  deluged  with  informations  ranging  from  murder  to 
"introducing"  and  the  several  grades  of  criminal  assault.  The 
new  domain  having  been  by  the  Interior  Department  judicially 
declared  ' '  Indian  Country,  "  an  inflammatory  array  of  boot- 
leggers engaged  in  the  illicit  traffic  of  red  liquor  of  doubtful 
variety  and  "Poor  Lo"  was  soused  with  this  brand  of  tailor- 
made  hell-broth  to  the  brink  of  going  out  upon  the  war-path. 
"Joints"  where  the  besom  of  destruction  was  dispensed  sprang 
up  as  if  by  the  invisible  wand  of  some  magic  Circe  or  other 
mythological  deity,  together  with  gambling  hells  of  mushroom 
growth.  Honk-a-tonks  and  hurdy-gurdies  of  salacious  flavor 
opened  their  flaunting  doors  wherein  racy  females  with  mere- 
tricious visages  and  libidinous  ensembles  dawdled  about  and 
initiated  the  novitiate  in  vice  and  separated  him  from  diamonds 
and  dollars,  provided  that  he  had  any.  No  exception  was  made 
here  as  between  the  case-hardened  cowman,  plainsman,  drunken 
soldiers,  sheep  herders,  muleskinners,  saloon  swampers,  pikers, 
line  riders,  squaw  humpers,  and  in  general  the  indiscriminate 
driftwood  of  western  civilization.  In  fact,  the  wide-open  element 
was  in  the  saddle,  and  prepared  to  furnish  dynamic  throbs  and 
thrills  or  any  brand  of  frontier  excitement  the  exacting  visitor 


22 


THIRTY  IEAKU  IN  HELL 


might  demand.  It  was  the  effervescent  moment,  where  every- 
thing floated  on  the  top  that  was  foul,  and  where  everything  was 
free  and  easy.  It  was  the  home  of  mad  excess  with  the  lack  of 
restraint  that  characterizes  all  new  lands. 

A  tenderloin  was  reared  in  the  environs  where  gimcracks  of 
easy  virtue  disported  themselves,  displaying  their  ravaged 
charms  in  a  veritable  intoxication  of  salacious  carnival  that 
would  back  the  Harem  of  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  clean  off  the 
boards  and  force  a  scarlet  nun  to  count  her  beads  and  go  thru 
the  stations  of  the  cross.  Verily,  they  cut  capers  like  bacchanals 
from  Mount  Menelaus.  Within  these  bagnios,  bedizened  hookers 
and  leering  harlots  of  rococo  charm,  immersed  in  a  cloudburst  of 
perfumery  which  emitted  from  their  diaphanous  flummery  and 
dewdads  the  true,  yet  indefinable  aroma  of  the  " soiled  dove," 
tripped  the  can-can  and  whirled  in  lascivious  pirouettes  and 
evolutions  the  then  unknown  hula  hula  and  the  ancient  Pyrrhic 
dance.  Like  whirling  dervishes  they  revolved  in  an  occult, 
weird,  dreamy,  mystic,  druidical,  cabalistic  circle.  There  were 
wild  convolutions  of  their  garments  and  mad  gyrations  of  their 
figures.  Their  skirts  were  freighted  with  the  odor  of  mille 
fleurs  and  other  perfumes  with  which  they  deluged  their  bodies, 
and  these  fumes  added  to  the  peculiar  smell  of  rotten  cigarettes, 
assaulted  sensitive  olfactories.  A  tenderloin  maestro  banged  and 
thumped  the  ivory  keys  of  a  bum  piano  like  an  ass  at  the  lyre. 
Under  this  spell  they  "bull-dagged"  and  danced  the  Hoochee- 
coochee,  the  Italian  Tarantella,  the  snail  drag,  the  shimmy  shiver 
and  old  risque  reels  with  free-floating  drapery.  They  also  did 
the  "  short  dog,"  the  Sphinx-winx  and  the  Cleopatra  clutch  with 
barbaric  abandon.  Highballs  and  cocktails  regaled  the  revelers 
with  prodigal  hospitality  and  the  general  joy  was  so  unconfined 
that  the  flying  feet  of  the  danseurs  and  the  danseuses  found  no 
rest  and  tired  " peepers"  were  not  kissed  down  and  the  carousal 
waxed  not  until  the  gray  dawn.  The  nights  were  gaudy  and  the 
revelers  mocked  the  midnight  bell.  All  sorts  of  damaged  goods 
danced  in  outrageous  and  unfettered  freedom.  There  was  the 
unequivocal  beauty  in  the  prime  of  her  womanhood,  putting  one 
in  mind  of  the  statue  in  Lucian  with  the  surface  of  marble  of 
Parian  quality  and  the  interior  filled  with  filth — the  pox- 
wrinkled,  bejeweled  and  paint-  begrimed  beldam  making  a  last 
effort  at  youth — the  mere  child  of  immature  form,  yet  from  long 
association  an  adept  in  the  dreadful  coquetries  of  her  trade,  and 
burning  with  a  rabid  ambition  to  be  ranked  the  equal  of  her 
elders  in  vice,  were  conspicuously  legion.  In  fine,  the  tenderloin 
was  a  real  ' '  Hell 's  half -acre, ' '  the  ' '  bad  lands ' '  of  the  townsite. 

The  honk-a-tonk  theaters  where  lewd  plays  and  devices  of 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


23 


fancy  appalled  the  senses,  were  ablaze  with  bacchanalian  orgies 
and  unrestrained  debaucheries.  They  were  Circean  palaces  of 
material  and  sensuous  delight.  In  improvised  places  here,  a 
gallery  was  provided  and  this  was  divided  into  small  alcoves  and 
sequestered  corners,  arranged  especially  for  quiet  conversation, 
where  punks,  boneheads  and  boobs  with  chimpanzee  heads,  and 
particularly  of  unmellowed  intelligence,  were  entertained  by 
nymphs  du  pave,  pink  savages,  foolish  virgina  and  peroxide 
demoiselles  tinseled  in  a  hurricane  of  festive  spangles,  dressed 
in  transparent  garments  and  fairylike  brevity  of  skirts.  About 
their  persons  glittered  ' 1  phoney"  jewelry  of  the  pinchbeck  and 
paste  ring.  Drinks  masquerading  in  the  genius  of  the  French 
vernacular  were  served  here,  and  the  geezer  who  escaped  to  the 
street  with  gold  still  plugged  in  his  teeth  was  a  lucky  dog.  These 
gilded  dens  were  free  to  enter,  but  a  life  was  frequently  the  toll 
to  emerge  therefrom.  The  ancient  panel  game  was  worked  to 
the  limit  and  the  limit  was  off.  These  cess-pools  of  iniquity  and 
purlieus  of  vice  and  licentiousness  were  littered  with  ' '  dippers ' ' 
whose  nimble  digits  extracted  valuables  from  the  exiguous 
pocketbooks  of  the  unsuspecting  and  gullible  boob.  Touts  for 
the  red-curtained  establishments  were  innumerable.  Drunken 
fisticuffs  were  frequent  and  in  them  a  free  hand  was  indulged, 
the  combatants  emerging  therefrom  with  battered  visages, 
ecclymosed  optics  and  lacerated  pates.  During  the  saturnalian 
orgies  at  the  bar,  where  livers  were  heated  with  drink,  barn- 
stormers and  hamfats  of  the  rankest  type  sung  devils'  ditties 
and  danced  themselves  into  free  perspiration  as  votaries  of 
Thespis  on  the  stage  of  Melpomene.  The  songs  were  haunting 
melodies  of  unadulterated  bathos — madrigals  and  heathen  can- 
zonets of  an  amorous  complexion.  These  were  sung  in  strange 
slides,  quaint  quavers  and  affecting  falsetto  breaks,  and  were 
frequently  hissed  by  ribald  cries  of  "get-the-hook"  and  were 
the  recipients  at  intermittent  periods  of  addled  eggs  of  the 
paleozoic  age,  malodorous  chemicals  and  cabbage  heads  from  the 
garden  of  Gethsemane.  The  muscle  dance  and  the  Egyptian 
glide  were  features  par  excellence.  The  character  and  variety 
stunts  enacted  here  was  of  the  rawest  sort  and,  en  passant,  I 
recall  an  instance  where  a  barnstorming  old  " Biddy,"  with  a 
seven-year-old  pinafore  and  a  forty-year-old  face,  chirruping  the 
ravishing  strains  of  some  honk-a-tonk  ebenezer  or  other  defunct 
wheeze,  responded  to  an  encore.  As  she  trilled  the  notes  of  this 
stone  age  song,  a  justly  irate  patron  cut  loose  with  an  "Old 
Betsy"  and  punctured  Maude  Adams  with  a  bullet  in  her  left 
limb.    No  wonder  when  it  is  considered  that  the  specialties 


24 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


offered  were  dismally  inane  and  fatuous,  the  rankest  brand  of 
theatrical  gravy  to  peddle  to  burlesque  appetites. 

The  dance  halls  were  embryonic.  At  the  farther  end  of  the 
sanded  floor  round  and  square  dances  were  indulged  in  by 
frolicsome  strumpets,  gillflirted  heifers  and  specimens  of  dam- 
aged goods  generally,  all  attired  in  scant  draperies.  They 
bowed  lovingly  at  the  shrine  of  Terpsichore,  moving  like  shuttle- 
cocks in  the  mazes  of  the  whirl,  and  generally  tripping  the  light 
fantastic  to  the  brink  of  apoplexy,  in  a  synchronizing  super- 
syncopation  aggravating  the  feet  into  a  shimmying,  tickle-toeing, 
snapping  delirium.  All  of  this  was  under  the  spell  of  a  five- 
piece  orchestra  which  reminded  one  of  the  frivolities  of  Joshua 
Whitcomb.  A  bar  was  set  up  here,  supplied  with  embalming 
fluid  that  would  cut  the  bark  off  a  tree,  to  which  the  revelers 
shambled,  reeking  with  sweat.  Bacchanalian  songs  were  sung 
here  lustily  to  the  clatter  of  bottles  and  glasses.  There  was  an 
intoxicating  vibration  in  the  air.  The  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of 
mirth  was  red.  While  the  orchestra  snarled  the  gamut  of 
dancing  hoedowns  and  in  the  general  rendition  there  was  inter- 
spersed some  rare  dance  tunes,  the  popular  heel  and  toe  hitting 
of  the  lumber  with  their  leather  were  invariably  "Rye-straw," 
the  "Arkansaw  Traveler,"  the  "Irish  Washerwoman,"  "Old 
Dan  Tucker,"  "The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me,"  and  other  ghosts 
of  little  lost  tunes  too  tired  to  die.  The  carbon  dioxide  created 
by  fetid  breaths  sodden  with  cheap  hootch,  and  the  copious  per- 
spiration that  rolled  from  these  dancers,  seemed  like  the  foggy 
fumes  that  issue  from  a  slave-ship's  between-decks.  The  whole 
was  a  poison  rendezvous  where  there  was  a  hazy  confusion  of 
tobacco  smoke,  boisterous  sounds,  cards  and  rotgut  whiskey.  It 
was  a  rough-house  hell,  where  the  devil's  scum,  where  the  um- 
bilici from  the  abdomen  of  society  disported  in  defiance  of 
human  and  divine  rescripts.  The  dissoluteness  and  the  abandon 
of  these  festivities  were  such  that  it  put  the  promised  land  in  a 
class  by  itself. 

The  general  intelligence  represented  here  was  of  a  myopic 
character,  the  women  being  mostly  demi-mondaines  and  adven- 
turesses, while  the  male  element  included  cow  boys,  thugs,  bar- 
room geccos,  lounge  lizards  and  afternoon  farmers,  with  here 
and  there  a  sprinkling  of  deputy  marshals,  the  latter  carrying 
about  their  persons  a  shooting  iron,  holster  and  a  spacious  and 
bulging  belt  of  shells.  The  second  floor  of  these  dance  halls  was 
partitioned  off  into  small  rooms,  to  which  the  godless  revelers 
repaired  after  the  reels.  Certain  it  is  that  it  would  have  re- 
quired both  a  bellows  and  a  fan  to  cool  the  lust  of  these  gypsy 
drabs.    They  were  steeped  in  concupiscence.    There  was  no 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


25 


mincing  of  virtue  here.  The  sporting  blood  of  the  plunger  took 
a  header  when  it  defied  Doctor  606  or  surgeon  JVZ  or  prescrip- 
tion 1001,  and  when  one  yielded  to  this  class  of  diversion  he 
usually  warbled  this  refrain: 

"Just  a  little  sunshine, 
Just  a  little  rain; 
Just  a  little  pleasure, 
Just  a  little  pain." 

Diseases  were  sold  here  dearer  than  any  physic. 

Besides  these  regular  houses  of  vice,  rudely  stamped,  slov- 
enly street  walkers,  who  were  candidates  for  the  Old  Lady's 
Home,  with  valerian  breaths  and  syphilitic  taint,  ' '  f leusies ' '  who 
"hit  the  pipe,"  "Janes"  who  sniffed  "coke"  and  "snortins, " 
together  with  evaporated  chickens  and  freelance  prostitutes  who 
chewed  snuff,  made  open  warfare  upon  the  pocketbooks  of  the 
timorous  rubes  from  the  alfalfa  belts  and  sage  lands.  Char- 
acters going  by  the  soubriquets  of  "Slew-foot  Nell,"  "Soldier 
Pete,"  "Slanting  Annie,"  and  others,  filled  the  concupiscent 
eye.  Lechery  was  in  the  very  atmosphere,  and  this  brand  of 
baggage  was  so  pitifully  sodden  that  a  strong  breath  would 
blow  it  to  pieces.  In  fact,  their  breaths  would  infect  even  to  the 
North  Star;  and  they  would  quickly  poop  one  roast  meat  for 
worms.  There  were  women  here  whose  hearts  were  in  their 
sleeves — women  of  false  modesty — women  who  could  play  the 
pious  innocent — women  that  the  world  could  have  gotten  along 
without. 

Immediately  after  the  human  freight  deposited  itself  upon 
the  townsite,  gambling  dens  were  opened,  first  in  tents  and  these 
rapidly  metamorphosed  to  gaming  palaces,  and  within  a  week  at 
least  fifty  gambling  houses,  approached  by  no  mysterious  pass- 
age or  guarded  entrance  were  in  full  running  order,  where  the 
rattle  of  coin  and  the  sweeping  of  boards  brought  the  senses 
under  the  dazzling  spell  of  an  agony  of  greed,  and  where  games 
from  faro  to  craps,  from  five-handed  draw  poker  to  keno,  from 
tric-a-trac  and  fan-tan  to  trente-et -ear ante,  where  rouge  et  noir, 
backgammon  and  Spanish  Monte,  Lansquenet  and  hieronymus 
were  played,  and  adventurous  spirits  risked  their  all  with  the 
ace  in  the  hole  and  the  high  card  to  win,  as  against  velvet  money 
represented  by  a  flash  roll  big  enough  to  stuff  a  feather  pillow. 
In  the  midst  of  these  bluffs,  gun  plays  were  on  time  schedule 
and  in  which  human  lives  paid  the  toll. 

Here  also  were  roulette  tables,  where  the  little  ball  ever  went 
merrily  round. 


26 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


Here  also  was  the  desperate  thimble-rig  bully  for  juggling 
tricks,  who  could  see  the  under  side  of  the  cards  readliy,  and  so 
indulge  in  all  sorts  of  tracasserie.  And  here  also  was  the  crimp 
with  his  light  movable  table  upon  which  he  manipulated  the 
old-time  ''shell"  game  and  other  catch-penny  attractions. 

At  this  time  Oklahoma  City  was  a  Mecca  for  old-time 
gamblers.  It  was  a  pocket  edition  of  the  Prince  of  Monaco's 
Monte  Carlo.  The  green  cloth  gladiators  were  conversant  with 
the  entire  card  ritual,  and  besides  a  host  of  them  deviated  from 
the  significance  of  the  round-table  slogan,  "Honor  among 
thieves. ' '  For  instance  in  the  inner  linings  of  the  cuffs  of  their 
left  sleeve,  were  secured  the  packs  necessary  to  be  sprung  at  the 
crucial  moment,  and  others  were  filched  from  the  capacious 
pockets  of  their  clothing,  specially  cut  by  the  sartorial  artisan. 
The  elastic  clip  on  the  arm  and  the  small  circular  mirror  were 
in  vogue,  as  part  of  the  card  sharper's  outfit.  This  latter  when 
laid  face  upward  upon  the  lap,  afforded  the  gambler  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  every  card  dealt  to  an  adversary.  There  were 
also  slick  gamblers  who  dealt  cards  from  the  bottom  of  the  deck, 
and  where  the  king  was  slyly  stolen  from  the  deck.  They  knew 
the  litany. 

It  would  do  violence  to  the  truth  not  to  mention  the  Tivoli 
game,  the  Rocky  Mountain  Dice  game,  the  Lock  game,  the  goose- 
neck and  the  four-card  game. 

None  of  the  finesse  was  omitted  for  raking  in  the  stamps,  so 
customary  on  similar  occasions,  that  it  is  a  just  matter  for 
wonder  how  any  are  still  found  so  besotted  as  to  fall  its  victim. 
Yet  the  temptation  to  get  something  for  nothing,  or  at  least 
much  for  little,  to  flirt  with  coquettish  fortune,  is  irresistible. 

In  these  gambling  rooms  could  be  seen  a  singular  admixture 
of  sentimental  blacklegs,  with  packs  of  cards  in  their  pockets 
and  revolvers  at  their  backs,  sure-thing  grafters,  confidence 
sharks,  get-rich-quick  Wallingfords,  brace  game  sharpers,  slip- 
pery devils,  audacious  sharpers,  slick  and  unctuous  swindlers, 
bunco  steerers,  wire-tippers,  door-mat  grafters,  together  with 
sturdy  professional  beggars,  hopheads,  feeble  and  ghastly  in- 
valids upon  whom  death  had  placed  a  sure  hand  and  a  grotesque 
medley  of  pinchback  wine  bums,  white-line  artists,  blown-in-the- 
glass  "stiffs,"  the  whole  comprising  a  sycophantic  horde  of 
ne'er-do-wells,  human  culls,  human  vermin  and  cutpurses  look- 
ing for  something  to  turn  up,  thus  insuring  their  continuance  of 
a  dolce  far  niente  existence,  hard-boiled  geekerinos  with  boiled 
brains  and  caked  blood — units  of  the  genus  homo,  simply  vege- 
tating in  the  places  stupidly  where  fortune  had  fixed  them. 
They  were  mere  pawns  upon  life's  chessboard — human  footballs 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


27 


that  never  reach  the  goal,  and  who  bore  upon  their  occiputs  the 
ineradicable  impress  of  the  lash  of  misery.  They  represented 
wrecks,  human  wrecks. 

The  question  is  often  asked  why  certain  useless  creatures 
have  been  created,  and  yet  people  sometimes  propound  this  query 
concerning  snakes.  But,  no  matter;  life  must  go  on;  whatever 
crafts  are  wrecked,  the  stream  must  not  stop  in  its  journey  to 
the  flood,  and  like  the  cave  of  juggernaut,  rolls  on  regardless  of 
the  human  hearts  which  it  may  crush  or  break. 

For  the  human  mind  to  contemplate  a  situation  where  law- 
lessness was  universal,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine,  and  the 
elasticity  of  the  popular  mind  might  be  staggered  thereby.  For 
four  months  after  this  opening,  the  streets  were  in  Cimmerian 
darkness  after  the  shades  of  night  mantled  the  earth,  houses 
being  lighted  by  the  uncertain  flickering  rays  of  the  tallow  dip 
or  the  antique  oil  burner.  One  may  speculate  relative  to  such 
a  status  after  nightfall  when  spent  bullets  pierced  the  atmos- 
phere like  hail  during  a  chinook,  the  derringers  and  shooting 
irons  being  in  the  hands  of  1 '  bad  men, ' '  thugs  and  hold-ups  who 
delighted  in  making  human  targets  thoroughfares  for  steel. 

Bandit  outlawry  reigned  and  train  robberies  occurred  every 
new  moon.  The  pace  and  ferocity  of  life  in  the  old  Indian  Ter- 
ritory created  the  bad  man,  just  as  the  financier  and  trust 
magnate  is  created  in  the  West  and  in  the  Middle  West.  Prior 
to  this  opening,  the  Indian  Territory  was  an  asylum  for  fugi- 
tives from  justice  of  other  states  and  a  breeding  place  for  crime. 
Besides  being  thinly  populated,  its  peculiar  geography  afforded 
hiding  places  for  refugees  and  here  bands  of  outlaws  held  the 
officers  at  bay.  The  hills,  the  uplands,  the  dense  forests,  the 
streams  and  the  thickets  and  the  underbrush  invited  these  fugi- 
tives and  held  them  under  cover  secure  from  federal  or  other 
molestation.  In  the  Cherokee  Nation  was  hatched  the  scheme  to 
rob  the  banks  of  Coffeyville,  Kan.,  where  four  outlaws  were 
shot  and  are  now  sleeping  their  last  sleep  in  a  potter 's  fosse  with 
their  boots  still  on.  The  criminal  records  at  Fort  Smith,  Ark., 
show  that  more  than  one  hundred  criminals  were  hanged  under 
the  judgeship  of  the  late  Judge  Isaac  Parker,  the  then  Judge  of 
the  U.  S.  Court  for  the  District  of  Arkansas.  Like  Jeffreys  of 
England,  he  was  commonly  dubbed  "the  hanging  judge."  His 
court  for  judicial  purposes  included  the  eastern  part  of  the 
old  Indian  Territory  and  from  this  Territory  the  criminal  grist 
was  supplied,  among  them  notably  Cherokee  Bill,  1 '  Bill ' '  Doolin, 
the  Dalton  gang  and  other  noted  outlaws,  all  of  whom  died  with 
their  boots  on,  true  to  tradition  and  the  prophecy  of  their  fellows. 

Since  this  Oklahoma  opening,  I  have  been  in  many  other  por- 


28 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


tions  of  the  West,  notably  m  the  early  days  of  boom  cities  of 
Colorado,  Nevada,  California,  Montana  and  Washington.  But 
alas!  and  alack!  there  exists  no  more  glorious  and  traditional 
West  of  three  or  four  decades  since !  Even  Roundups,  Carnivals 
to  revive  the  old  days,  Wild  West  Carnivals,  frontier  days,  stam- 
pedes and  passings  of  the  West  have  gone  with  the  passing  of 
the  West.  It  is  a  terrible  awakening  from  poetic  dreams.  There 
are  few  survivors  of  the  old  type,  very  few  of  the  characteristic 
products  of  the  western  plains  left  and  the  West  today  is  really 
East  of  the  Mississippi  River. 

I  cannot  help  wondering  whether  the  old  timers,  if  they  ever 
revisit  the  scenes  of  their  former  labors  in  their  larger  compre- 
hensions, the  men  who  gave  the  dominant  and  picturesque  color- 
ing to  the  life  of  that  period,  view  with  regret  the  impending 
change  or  mourn  over  the  day  when  the  West  shall  appropriately 
come  to  grief,  for  the  West  is  growing  old  and  has  disappeared 
forever  on  the  horizon  of  time. 

When,  during  the  ancien  regime,  the  six-gun  was  an  honored 
institution  and  settled  all  private  differences  and  Vigilance 
Committees  and  Law  and  Order  parties  adjudicated  larger 
public  ones,  now  seriousness  and  respectability,  so  called,  reign 
and  peaceful  and  pastoral  days  have  succeeded.  Gospel  mills 
have  been  reared  where  saloons  formerly  flourished,  and  the  old 
time  gambling  house  and  the  bagnio  which  housed  angels  of 
darkness  are  no  more.  Like  scarlet  fever,  the  disease  has  spread 
from  segregation  and  altogether  people  have  been  forced  into 
paths  of  so-called  rectitude  by  reason  of  the  militant  church 
movements  formulated  by  moral  purity  protagonists,  bilious 
smelling  committees,  Billy  Sunday  evangelists  and  cranks  gen- 
erally who  have  developed  a  form  of  moral  dyspepsia  known  as 
the  puritanical  conscience.  Added  to  this  moral  dyspepsia  are 
the  unholy  crusades  of  national  prohibition  and  woman  suffrage. 
Notwithstanding  all  of  these  we  know  that  the  social  millenium 
will  never  come  by  force  but  by  persuasion,  and  the  galled  jades 
will  wince  while  our  withers  remain  unwrung. 

The  West  of  yesterday,  like  the  red  centaurs  of  the  plains, 
the  old  galleons  of  the  trail,  the  trappers,  the  prospectors  and 
the  buckskin  garbed  scouts  and  the  American  bison  are  fast 
disappearing  from  the  face  of  the  earth  and  fading  from  the 
imaginations  of  men.  The  old  idyllic  days  of  the  argonauts  and 
pathfinders  are  past  and  there  is  an  Iliad  yet  to  be  sung  of  the 
enchanting  spell  of  the  West  that  is  gone  forever.  These  char- 
acters dwell  in  that  realm  of  the  storied  past  along  with  the 
driver  of  the  overland  coach,  the  buffalo  hunter  and  the  roving 
red  man.   Their  day  is  past ;  yet  in  their  day  they  were  among 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


29 


the  most  vivid  and  colorful  of  the  types  of  two  generations.  I 
muse:  "How  chances  mock  and  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alter- 
ation with  divers  liquors."  Yet  as  I  ponder  on  the  ringing 
grooves  of  change,  I  know  that  change  is  a  law  of  nature  and 
that  it  is  a  commonplace  of  science  that  all  organism,  plants, 
animals,  human  societies  and  everything  changes  as  environment 
changes.    Tempora  mutantur  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis. 

Now,  in  the  tumult  of  these  scenes  and  among  this  most  gro- 
tesque assembling  of  cosmopolites,  unacquainted  as  they  were, 
one  with  the  other,  I  proclaimed  myself  a  limb  of  the  law,  a 
gentleman  of  the  black  robe  and  the  green  bag,  an  exponent  of 
that  science  to  which  Grimke  and  Curran  and  Ingersoll  and 
Choate  gave  their  lives;  and  this  long  before  I  even  understood 
the  rule  in  Shelley's  case.  I  was  on  a  full  sea  of  voluptuousness, 
and,  taking  the  current  when  it  served  regardless  of  popular 
dogma,  I  plunged  into  a  maelstrom  of  bacchanalian  carnival  and 
saturnalian  revelry,  a  whirlpool  of  boundless  intemperance.  I 
drank  with  the  trampled  vintage  of  my  youth.  I  became  a 
reveler  in  the  seething  dance  halls,  a  patron  of  the  red-light 
district,  an  habitue  of  the  bar  rooms  and  a  sitter  at  the  round 
table  with  the  green  cloth  overlaid  with  stained  disks,  and  where 
the  ante  was  a  hundred  dollars  and  a  thousand  dollar  raise.  In 
my  bacchanalian  devotions  I  gravitated  from  the  gilded  lobster 
buffets  to  the  mediocre,  these  being  less  odious,  because  less  in- 
congruous sinks  of  pollution  and  finally  I  descended  to  the 
notorious  dives.  I  drank  with  bestial  avidity,  so  much  so  that 
the  quantity  would  stagger  the  unbelief  of  Satan  himself.  I 
actually  weltered  in  the  mire  of  alcoholism.  I  indulged  un- 
checked in  all  the  mad  excess  of  a  counterfeit  hilarity — the  joint 
offspring  of  liberty  and  rum.  I  drifted  with  every  passion  till 
my  soul  became  a  stringed  lute  on  which  all  winds  played.  With 
me  it  was  to  be  Caesar  or  nobody — today  a  king,  tomorrow  noth- 
ing. I  had  rather  be  a  beggar  and  live  like  a  king,  than  be  a  king 
and  live  like  a  beggar.  In  fact,  I  indulged  in  high  living  and 
revelry  as  if  I  were  going  to  die  tomorrow. 

The  emoluments  derived  from  my  industry  in  my  chosen  avo- 
cation were  wrung  from  the  coffers  of  gamblers,  scarlet  women 
and  others  of  the  sporting  class,  as  my  ambitious  finger  was  in 
their  pie.  I  do  not  possess  the  ingrowing  ego,  yet  I  may  say 
that  I  was  in  a  gale  of  favor  with  this  element  and  I  made  the 
best  of  it,  for  the  reason  that  this  class  is  usually  flush.  So 
among  them,  I  wore  the  toga  of  the  elect  in  the  organized  guild 
of  gamblers  and  sports.  The  fact  that  I  became  their  legal 
support,  added  a  moral  cubit  to  my  stature  in  my  own  estima- 
tion, and  in  this  I  heard  the  hiss  of  envious  snakes. 


30 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


Now,  notwithstanding  that  the  shoemaker  should  not  go  be- 
yond his  awl,  yet  I  offer  with  self-applauding  pleasantry  the 
obitur  dictum  that  the  encephalic,  volitive,  lymphatic  and  san- 
guine temperaments  and  the  individual  brain  construction  is 
responsible  for  man's  fall  thru  intemperance,  that  most  loath- 
some and  dangerous  of  all  fields  and  an  adversary  that  destroys 
body  and  soul  when  its  claws  are  fixed  upon  its  victim.  It 
echoes  the  curses  of  criminals,  the  cries  of  orphans,  the  sobs  of 
mothers,  the  pleadings  of  loved  ones,  the  groans  of  the  dying,  the 
shriek  of  the  maniac,  the  senseless  chatter  of  the  idiot  and  im- 
becile, and  the  clanking  of  stronger  chains  than  were  ever 
placed  upon  the  limbs  of  slaves.  It  sparkles  with  the  joy  taken 
from  happy  homes  and  glows  with  the  hues  it  has  stolen  from 
the  cheeks  of  health  and  innocence,  while  it  reflects  the  miserable 
wreck  of  humanity  it  has  left  as  well  as  the  image  of  a  depraved 
posterity.  I  believe  that  I  have  the  ability  to  think  things  out 
for  myself  and,  being  aided  by  experience,  this  conclusion  may 
be  regarded  at  least  dogmatic,  if  not  ex  cathedra.  And  yet  it 
may  be  argued  that  a  man  so  debased  as  myself  cannot  remon- 
strate with  Providence  or  sermonize  to  society.  If  I  am  right, 
the  fault  is  not  in  ourselves  but  in  our  stars,  and  one  cannot  help 
becoming  a  drunkard  any  more  than  an  Ethiopian  can  change 
his  skin,  a  leopard  change  its  spots.  The  statistics  of  psycopathic 
hospitals,  if  any  there  be,  where  patients  suffering  from  alcoholic 
dementia  and  alcoholic  psychosis  will  confirm  this  belief.  I  am 
aware  that  temperance  purists,  psalm-singing  bible-backs,  sky- 
pilots,  puritanical  crusaders,  pretty  sentimentalists,  tempera- 
mental extremists,  long-haired  preachers  and  short-haired 
women,  priests  and  priestesses  of  Cybele,  moral  uplift  protagon- 
ists and  Billy  Sunday  pussyfeet  and  other  so-called  virtuous 
sinners,  who  go  about  with  Corybantic  enthusiasm,  " stringing" 
the  masses,  assign  another  brand  of  dope  for  this  evil.  Let  them 
nurse  their  theories  of  planetary  influence,  that  excellent  fop- 
pery of  the  world,  environment  and  degenerate  heredity.  They 
are  question  dodgers.  They  belong  to  the  herds,  that  stupid 
mass  of  men  clinging  forever  to  worn-out  creeds.  They  talk  like 
blind  men  pointing  the  way,  and  they  ought  to  remain  on  their 
reservations.  They  talk  like  just  having  recovered  from  ether. 
The  moral  sense  is  sometimes  startled  out  of  its  hypocrisy  and 
demands  the  bitter  beer  of  self -consciousness  and  remorse.  Their 
views  are  jaundiced  views.  They  are  narrow-minded  and  let 
history  say  what  it  will,  they  will  never  believe  that  Socrates 
ever  danced. 

I  feel  gratified  that  in  the  exploitation  of  the  foregoing  idea 
as  a  conclusion  based  upon  actual  experience,  I  am  eminently 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


31 


fortified  to  advance  it  in  a  greater  measure  than  Pussyfoot  J ohn- 
son,  Joshua  Johnson,  or  too  much  Johnson,  for  the  manifest 
reason  that  none  of  them  have  ever  gone  the  route ;  and  I  have 
as  much  right  to  this  opinion  as  a  Chinaman  has  to  burn  punk 
to  his  joss  or  devil.  A  host  of  reformed  drunkards  will  endorse 
this  dictum  as  the  frozen  truth.  I  had  rather  believe  him  who 
spouted  about  the  old  Aramaic  Golgotha  and  had  seen  and  car- 
ried away  a  piece  of  the  true  and  ancient  Cross,  than  one  who 
uttered  dogmas  about  the  Place  of  the  Skull,  and  who  had  never 
been  there.   Quand  on  voit  la  chose,  on  la  croit. 


CHAPTER  II 


MY  FIRST  "SHOT" 


"For  God's  sake  a  pot  of  small  ale." 

— The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

My  daily  and  nightly  potations  of  brandy  and  rum  continued 
with  mechanical  precision,  and  after  protracted  profligate  revels 
I  awoke  one  morning  utterly  collapsed  from  nervous  tremors. 
I  had  been  swine  drunk  and  looking  for  an  eye-opener.  I  was 
too  nervous  to  guide  the  glass  to  my  lips  and  this  office  was  per- 
formed by  the  bartender,  while  two  bar  flies  supported  my 
equipoise.  The  potency  of  this  liquor  stiffened  my  relaxed 
sinews  and  dulled  the  nervous  edge  of  my  apprehension,  and 
warmed  the  torpid  blood  in  my  veins  and  softened  my  acerbity. 
I  thought  that  the  bar  mirror  into  which  I  now  gazed  was  a 
bauble  alongside  of  the  world  mirror  which  gave  back  to  me  the 
reflection  of  my  own  face.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  indulged  in 
thought  transference  and  I  projected  an  apparition  of  myself 
by  the  force  of  my  will  thru  space.  I  again  gazed  at  the  mirror 
and  saw  that  my  hair  was  standing  out  in  neglected  wisps,  the 
pupils  of  my  eyes  were  abnormally  dilated,  and  my  body  I 
sensed  was  reeking  with  Sheeny  hand-me-downs  that  had  been 
glued  to  my  cross  bones  for  weeks.  I  had  the  face  of  a  bacchanal 
from  the  shards  of  an  Attic  wine  jug.  It  was  frightfully  dis- 
figured by  dissipation.  I  shook  like  the  plumes  upon  the  hearse 
and  cursed  the  fates  in  a  rapid  fire  of  picturesque  profanity  and 
billingsgate. 

The  best  of  pleasures,  social  or  otherwise,  if  carried  beyond 
the  natural  power  of  physical  or  mental  endurance,  begin  to 
approach  the  character  of  a  penance. 

In  this  strange  pilgrimage  thru  life  one  meets  up  with  essen- 
tially different  bedfellows,  and,  inter  pocula,  among  saloon 
loungers  and  bar  flies  this  is  especially  significant.  Misery  loves 
company  and  human  driftwood  hungers  for  fellowship,  and  in 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


33 


general  conviviality  there  is  the  intoxication  of  good  and  the 
drunkenness  of  evil. 

On  this  morning  a  number  of  bar  flies  were  religiously  prac- 
tising before  the  saloon  timber — units  of  the  profanum  vulgus, 
while  about  the  room  chair  warmers  lounged  and  wall  geccos 
posed.  In  my  survey  of  the  room  my  eyes  fixed  upon  one  of 
these  whose  visage  betrayed  the  very  apotheosis  of  benignity. 
Something  of  a  student  of  nature  myself  and  an  appraiser  of 
character,  never  was  I  so  fooled  as  in  this  human  form.  Yet  he 
seemed  to  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  and  withal,  was  to  my  con- 
ception at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the  world.  He  looked  at 
me  and  I  looked  at  him.  The  countenance  is  the  portal  and 
picture  of  the  mind.  Mind  is  master  of  matter  and  man  can 
summon  both  to  work  against  themselves,  strange  pseudo-sciences 
of  animal  magnetism  and  electro-biology.  Fortunately  I  have  a 
talent  for  adapting  myself  to  conditions  and  people,  which 
greatly  facilitates  any  investigation  which  I  may  have  in  hand. 
There  was  a  certain  fascination  about  him  which  I  could  not 
resist,  altho'  had  I  been  normal,  I  would  have  known  it  to  be 
only  a  veneer  for  demonology.  Leaving  his  position  against  the 
wall  where  he  had  been  posing  as  a  mural  lizard,  he  flashed  me 
a  wireless  radiogram  to  follow  him  and  as  a  nod  is  as  good  as  a 
wink  to  a  blind  man,  I  obeyed  this  telepathic  message.  When 
we  reached  the  tap  room  of  this  barrel  house,  he  seemed  after  a 
few  moments'  conversation  already  installed  in  my  intimacy. 
We  had  evidently  reciprocal  sympathy  and  similar  tastes.  In 
fact,  he  began  by  saying  that  he  believed  we  were  both  born 
under  the  same  planet.  Very  readily  he  came  to  the  point  when 
he  confided  to  me  that  he  had  it  within  his  power  to  steady  my 
nerves  and  immediately  transform  me  from  a  shivering  disciple 
of  John  Barleycorn  to  a  status  where  I  would  loll  in  a  veritable 
heaven  of  ease  and  exhilaration.  All  of  this  he  imparted  in  sub- 
dued monotone  and  his  lispings  had  the  true  ring  of  suspicion, 
which  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind.  His  face  was  pale  like 
those  to  whom  dead  Lazarus  burst  the  tomb.  He  had  an  atten- 
uated frame  and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  gimlet-pointed.  I 
am  not  a  mind  reader,  altho'  at  divers  times  I  have  suffered  the 
accusation  of  this  soft  impeachment,  but  all  the  same  like  the 
Melancholy  Dane,  I  do  know  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw.  So  that  I 
instinctively  divined  this  human  derelict  as  a  chronic  habitue  to 
some  narcotic  drug.  He  had  long  white  hands  with  dirty  nails. 
His  habiliments  were  greasy  and  full  of  rips  and  tatters  at  the 
bottoms.  His  vest  was  splotched  with  grease  and  spots  of  coagu- 
lated matter.  He  was  shirtless  and  collarless.  He  was  a  replica, 
a  counterpart  presentment  of  Happy  Hooligan,  without  the 


34 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


tomato  can,  but  in  lieu  thereof  he  had  a  sky  piece  that  had 
grown  rusty  by  exposure  to  all  sorts  of  weather.  His  mug  was 
both  choleric  and  apoplectic,  and  all  together  he  reflected  the 
very  genius  of  famine. 

The  siren  song  of  the  derelict  I  cashed  in,  and  forthwith  I  con- 
ducted him  to  my  law  office,  where,  cloistered  in  the  silence,  I 
told  him  to  ' '  shoot. ' '  Whereupon  from  his  pocket  he  uncovered 
a  bottle  which  I  noticed  had  upon  it  a  red  label  with  a  represen- 
tation of  the  skull  and  cross  bones,  and  marked  Morphinae 
sulphas.  He  placed  a  small  quantity  of  the  crystalline  salt  into 
a  spoon  holding  water,  applied  a  match  and  cooked  the  soup. 
He  then  drew  the  contents  into  a  small  metal  syringe,  screwed 
on  a  needle,  rolled  up  my  sleeve,  caught  up  a  pinch  of  flesh  of  the 
left  arm  and  injected  the  dope  in  the  tissues.  In  so  doing,  he 
held  the  instrument  by  its  curved  steel  horns,  and  the  juice  so 
injected  seemed  so  much  like  the  contents  of  some  poisonous 
insect. 

I  immediately  felt  the  effect  of  the  injection.  There  was  a 
soothing  sensation  creeping  over  me,  an  elevation  of  animal 
spirits,  a  general  buoyancy.  There  was  physical  exhilaration  and 
mental  clarification.  My  entire  being  seemed  suffused  with 
empressement  and  verve.  The  term  sans  souci  is  more  expres- 
sive. I  at  once  resorted  to  loquacity  and  I  thought  that  I  could 
solve  the  secrets  of  life  imperishable  and  love  divine.  I  thought 
that  I  held  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  life  and  that  I  was  the  peer 
of  the  great  guesser  of  riddles.  I  could  explain  magnetic 
effluvium,  terrestrial  rotation,  sidereal  attraction,  molecular  ad- 
hesion and  the  heliocentric  theory  of  the  solar  system,  the  Cal- 
lina  of  the  Spaniards,  the  Quovar  of  the  Ethiopians.  I  was  in  an 
atmosphere  of  unalloyed  peace  and  dreamy  indolence,  the  very 
distilled  essence,  the  very  quintessence  of  concentrated  mental 
activity  and  physical  composure.  I  addressed  listening  senates 
and  heard  the  air  echo  with  applause. 

I  was  seized  with  an  insatiable  yearning  to  indulge  in  the 
garrulity  of  the  charaltan  and  talked  away  like  one  to  whom 
words  were  a  necessary,  escape  for  my  surcharge  of  animal 
spirits.  The  injection  seemed  to  fill  all  voids,  for  I  was  now 
neither  hungry  nor  thirsty.  I  had  had  enough  of  both,  and  it  is 
well  known  that  there  are  certain  occasions  when  enough  is 
entirely  too  much  and  not  even  more  superfluous,  and  that  a 
little  more  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 

My  bum  confrere  now  sallied  forth  to  the  street,  for  I  was  on 
the  very  qui  vive  of  bodily  activity  and  dreamy  speculation.  As 
boulevardiers  we  hit  the  high  places.  Altho'  unkempt  in  per- 
sonal appearance  a  moment  before,  I  was  now  Chesterfield  him- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


35 


self,  an  Apollo  Belvidere.  The  drug  had  shaved  me  ten  times 
oyer,  and  I  thought  that  my  all  together  reflected  a  glass  of 
fashion  and  a  mould  of  form.  I  entered  a  familiar  emporium 
and  came  face  to  face  with  a  large  circular  mirror  that  stood  as 
a  screen  at  the  door.  It  flattered  me  beyond  the  most  colorful 
dreams  of  the  opium  eater  and  I  seemed  to  go  right  thru  it,  but 
I  must  have  executed  a  detour  for,  on  catapulting  out,  I  observed 
it  to  be  intact.  I  now  found  myself  before  a  wooden  Indian  in 
front  of  "My  Lady  Nicotine"  and  to  this  figure  I  delivered  an 
oration  on  Mosaic  cosmology.  Further  on,  I  shadowboxed  with 
the  aid  of  a  street  lamp  and  swung  a  haymaker.  I  now  recall 
that  I  was  inordinately  garrulous  and  I  must  have  indulged  in 
insipidities,  platitudes,  gubble,  rodomontade  and  fanfaronade 
galore  in  the  jargon  of  Paracelsus. 

My  animal  status  was  much  like  that  of  the  "little  wanton 
boys  that  swim  on  bladders,  far  beyond  their  depth. ' '  I  seemed 
to  float  in  dreamy  reverie  in  the  ether,  and  then  drop  at  will 
down  to  the  earth,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing.  I  seemed  mounting 
into  the  air,  that  I  was  floating,  flying  into  it;  it  seemed  that 
something  was  lifting  me  above  the  earth.  I  felt  as  tho'  I  were 
hanging  in  midair  and  had  lost  my  hold  of  all  things  tangible. 
It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  flying  that  has  yet  been  given  to 
man.  There  was  something  strange  in  my  sensations,  something 
indescribably  new  and  from  its  very  novelty  incredibly  sweet. 
I  felt  younger,  lighter,  happier  in  body. 

Impelled  by  vagrant  fancies,  I  wandered  aimlessly  about.  In 
these  circuitous  shifts  my  groggy  tracks  must  perforce  have 
made  the  rounds  of  familiar  landmarks  and  about  which  I  had 
no  recollection  afterwards.  But  from  common  report,  I  must 
have  cut  some  singular  fandangoes,  whirlings  and  pirouettes  and 
pigeon-wings — a  dansez  this  way,  a  balancez  that  way.  I  pitched 
pennies  to  starving  beggars  on  the  street  and  made  salaams  to 
lamp-posts  and  telegraph  poles  and  shouted  aloud  to  the  popu- 
lous heavens. 

I  was  in  the  tow  of  the  FIEND. 

I  was  now  in  an  Arabian  Nights  atmosphere.  I  thought  that 
I  was  absolutely  in  another  sphere.  Of  course,  I  did  not  know 
where  I  was.  But  I  knew  that  I  was  not  on  this  earth.  It  must 
have  been  a  brief  transition  to  heaven.  The  last  that  I  remember 
is  that  I  felt  a  subtle  fire  course  thru  my  veins,  followed  by  a 
delicious  languor  that  crept  upwards  to  my  heart  and  seemed  to 
arrest  its  pulsation  by  an  irresistible  persuasiveness  to  repose. 
Probably  I  swooned,  for  I  lost  all  consciousness  and  recollection 
of  time  and  place  for  many  hours. 

Thunderous  rappings  aroused  me  from  a  slumbrous  lethargy 


36 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  I  regained  my  deformed  sensibilities.  I  opened  the  door  of 
my  office  and  it  is  said  that  if  one  even  think  of  the  devil,  he  will 
appear.  In  dreams  of  the  night,  I  had  not  thought  of  the  derelict 
who  shot  me  with  morphia,  and  so  far  as  day  dreams  were  con- 
cerned, the  memory  of  him  was  lost  in  the  swallowing  gulf  of 
dark  f orgetfulness  and  deep  oblivion,  for  he  had  adroitly  slipped 
from  my  side  when  we  started  ont  as  boulevardiers.  Now  he 
stood  at  my  elbow.  I  took  him  in  and  he  ultimately  proved  bad 
money. 

The  1 1  shot ' '  of  morphine  that  he  had  administered  to  me  the 
day  previous  had  spent  its  force,  and  I  was  in  a  fervor  of  per- 
spiration. In  other  regards  I  was  normal,  and  altho'  I  had 
casually  heard  of  the  drug  before,  I  would  not  have  thought  of 
it  again  had  he  not  been  there.  I  knew  that  one  single  dose  does 
not  make  a  habit.  But  this  fellow,  fleshed  in  iniquity  before 
time,  was  there  going  round  in  circles  and  sticking  like  a  cockle 
burr  to  my  meal  tickets,  and  being  there,  I  begged  for  another 
' '  shot. ? '  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  have  to  ask  him  a  second 
time  to  lure  me  on  like  some  poisonous  flower.  I  simply  did  not 
have  the  capacity  myself  to  resist  first  beginnings.  Whereupon 
my  enemy  administered  another  ' ' shot"  in  the  same  old  way. 

Morphine  must  be  a  fickle  Sphinx,  for  the  day  before  I  was 
robbed  of  appetite;  now  I  was  as  ravenous  as  a  gourmand.  I 
instantly  became  captivated  by  kitchen  odors.  I  yearned  for  the 
epicurean  cooks  of  some  Bialto  Cafe  to  sharpen  my  appetite  with 
cloyless  veloute  sauce.  I  thought  that  I  was  born  for  digestion 
only,  and  it  mattered  not  whether  it  was  the  horns  of  a  billy  goat 
or  the  shingles  of  a  church.  Truly,  it  is  an  empty  stomach  that 
all  sorts  of  incurable  diseases  finds  an  easy  prey! 

After  having  declaimed  to  an  ink  well  on  my  desk,  we  floated 
out  on  the  vagrant  breeze  and  fetched  up  finally  at  a  rotisserie. 
An  epicure  myself,  I  ordered  a  Lucullean  feast  for  two  and  we 
fell  onto  the  viands  like  hungry  pikes,  ab  ovo  usque  ad  mala. 
For  the  service  rendered,  I  backsheeshed  the  waiter  a  half 
century  to  impress  the  cafe  caryatides.  I  heard  the  whisper, 
"  They  're  full  of  dope,"  and  looking  up,  I  saw  quizzical,  and 
wondering  glances  focused  upon  us.  The  conclusion  was  forced 
upon  me  that  it  was  as  fixed  as  stars  that  should  I  continue  in 
the  use  of  morphia,  the  fact  would  eventually  germinate  in  a 
flying  rumor  and  become  a  matter  of  popular  comment.  I  could 
not  afford  to  add  chronic  addiction  to  narcotism  to  habitual  in- 
temperance. I  moralized  that  morphia  might,  perchance,  shift 
John  Barleycorn  to  a  sidetrack,  but  I  would  still  be  on  the  main 
line  of  the  drug  addiction.   Which  road  should  I  follow  ? 

As  subsequent  events  showed,  I  pursued  both,  and  the  work 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


37 


of  my  demoralization  began.  I  proceeded  de  mat  en  pis  and 
commenced  bruler  la  chandelle  par  les  deux  bouts.  I  cut  down 
the  tree  to  get  the  fruit.  I  was  absolutely  incapable  of  self- 
discipline.  I  was  a  hedonist  from  birth  and  sought  present 
pleasure  absolutely  insensible  to  any  sequences  whatsoever.  I 
therefore  easily  fell  a  captive  to  this  potent  drug.  In  the  pursuit 
of  present  pleasure  and  the  gratification  of  passing  whimsical 
fancies,  the  opinions  of  others  affected  me  not.  My  impression- 
able nature  broke  forth  with  redoubled  ardor  and  I  spurned 
even  the  common  restraints  of  decency  in  the  mad  infatuations 
of  my  revels.  While  virtue  consists  merely  in  the  avoidance  of 
vice,  I  was  headstrong  by  nature  and  pursued  the  broad  way, 
and  while  I  saw  and  approved  of  the  better  things,  I  followed 
the  worst.  I  had  not  the  gumption  to  resist  first  beginnings. 
I  was  incapable  of  bridling  my  appetite  to  yield  to  reason.  I 
became  a  voluptuary  by  the  imperious  chance  that  rules  the  lives 
of  human  sons  of  guns.  Possibly  while  I  was  not  free  from  the 
weaknesses  of  the  flesh,  I  may  have  been  above  the  temptations 
of  the  spirit.  In  this  I  must  have  been  working  out  my  own 
manifest  destiny. 

Was  I  the  architect  of  my  ruin,  the  author  of  my  fall,  the 
maker  of  my  bed?  Was  I  the  moulder  of  my  fate,  the  captain 
of  my  soul?  Was  I  the  innocent  victim  to  be  immolated  upon 
the  altar  of  voluptuousness?  Was  I  to  be  an  excluded  and 
marked  man?  Was  it  the  inscrutable  will  of  destiny  that  I 
should  become  a  wanton  licentiate?  Was  I  the  true  forger  of 
the  chains  that  bound  me?  Was  it  some  mysterious  biological 
power,  some  magic  susceptibility  left  as  a  legacy  by  my  fore- 
fathers? Was  my  status  the  inevitable  logic  of  fate,  the  true 
sequence  of  events? 

My  answer  is  that  I  was  born  morally  insensible  and  had  an 
insensate  readiness  to  evil.  Hedonism  was  born  in  me  just  as 
burning  devotion  is  in  certain  souls.  I  was  made  of  an  incon- 
gruous compound,  and  must  have  had  a  ferocious  animalism  close 
to  the  surface  of  my  being.  I  am  aware  that  thruout  my  life  my 
actions  have  received  their  impulse  from  the  force  of  feeling  than 
from  the  wisdom  of  reason,  and  this  has  led  me  to  acknowledge 
that  my  conduct  has  been  dependent  upon  my  nature  more  than 
upon  my  mind;  both  are  generally  at  war  and  in  the  midst  of 
their  continual  collisions,  I  have  never  found  in  me  sufficient 
mind  to  balance  my  nature  or  enough  strength  in  my  nature  to 
counteract  the  power  of  my  mind.  I  hold  that  man's  normal 
condition  and  abnormal  status  of  disease  can  both  be  traced  to 
obvious  causes — that  man  is  subject  solely  to  the  laws  of  his  own 
peculiar  organization,  that  every  man  is  the  product  of  his  own 


38 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


surrounding's.  Therefore,  as  reason  is  the  only  touch,  I  leave  it 
to  the  scientists  and  physiologists  and  the  metaphysical  moralists 
and  to  the  believers  in  material  positive  science,  to  prove  that  my 
faults  are  those  of  temperament  and  of  brain  construction. 
When  we  consider  that  there  is  no  effect  without  a  cause,  the 
conduct  of  individuals  is  no  exception  to  this  rule.  As  Bulwer 
Lytton  says :  1 1  It  is  not  an  uncommon  crochet  amongst  benevo- 
lent men  to  maintain  that  wickedness  is  necessarily  a  sort  of  in- 
sanity, and  that  nobody  would  make  a  violent  start  out  of  the 
straight  path  unless  stung  to  such  disorder  by  a  bee  in  his 
bonnet. ' ' 

Then  who  can  overcome  his  habit  of  thought  or  reconstruct 
his  character?  Can  a  negro  shed  his  skin?  Can  a  leopard 
change  its  spots  ?   As  well  try  to  make  a  swan  out  of  a  goose ! 

It  became  quite  apparent  to  me,  therefore,  that  as  long  as 
this  human  derelict  and  dope  fiend  hung  about  the  fringes  of  the 
town  jumping  sideways  for  doughnuts  and  "chow,"  I  was 
powerless  to  desist  and  had  not  the  invincibility  to  overcome  his 
ministrations  of  morphia.  I  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  power  of 
temptation  and  bared  my  arm  to  receive  the  balm  that  produced 
unalloyed  ease,  undiluted  pleasure,  dreamy  indolence.  My  mood 
was  expressed  in  these  words:  " There  is  no  God  but  Morphia 
and  I  am  its  Prophet."  This  is  one  of  the  paraphrases  of  the 
Moslem.  And  morphinomaniacs  believe  in  this  as  tenaciously  as 
the  Mohammedan  believes  in  Mohammed  when  he  says :  ' '  There 
is  no  deity  but  God;  Mohamet  is  God's  apostle;  God  bless  and 
save  him." 

I  could  not  forego  the  black  magic  of  the  influence  and  the 
supreme  peace — the  peace  that  surpasseth  all  understanding — 
and  the  rapture  exerted  by  the  sting  of  the  noxious  little  steel 
insect.  I  was  fretting  with  crawling  skin  and  muscles  spasmod- 
ically twitching  for  the  calming  potion.  My  desire  now  became 
a  lust  of  the  nerves  for  the  drug,  altho'  I  was  but  an  abecedarian 
in  this  the  most  beneficent  toxic  in  the  dispensatory. 


CHAPTER  III 


HOW  I  BECAME  A  DOPE  FIEND 


"But  custom  what  they  did  begiii, 
Was  with  long  use  account  no  sin."  : 
— Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre. 

For  two  months  thereafter  I  kept  on  in  a  pagan,  sensuous 
way,  the  ministrations  of  this  itinerant  fiend  being  of  daily 
occurrence.  But  one  bright  morning  I  awoke  to  find  that  the 
wanderlust  had  driven  Happy  Hooligan  from  the  town,  to  seek 
riches  in  pastures  novel,  new  and  quaint.  I  had  become  trag- 
ically acquainted  with  the  drug  and  was  in  fact  uncompromis- 
ingly in  its  chains.  I  was  in  the  dread  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
the  drug.  I  had  experienced  its  unaccountable  influences,  its 
intoxicating  joys,  its  reckless  and  mad  career;  now  I  felt  the 
dreadful  remorse,  the  ultimate  despair  and  ruin  in  which  it 
always  inevitably  ends.  I  was  suffering  because  I  wanted  it  and 
couldn't  get  it — the  agonies  of  the  damned  in  hell.  But  by  some 
sixth  sense  I  found  him  thirty  miles  away,  lowering  the  tide  in 
a  can  of  beer  in  the  rear  of  a  Sheeny  barrel-house.  Upon  our 
meeting  he  must  have  instantly  observed  the  duller  surface  of 
my  physiognomy  and  the  dilation  of  my  ocular  pupils,  as  these 
are  guide-posts  to  the  trained  eye,  for  he  at  once  relieved  my 
dilemma  by  ramming  the  delicate  needle  thru  the  skin. 

He  now  told  me  that  he  had  an  unalterable  purpose  of  resum- 
ing the  wanderlust  and  that  I  must  shift  for  myself.  11  Consult 
some  Sawbones,"  said  he,  ''or  'go  gunning '."  As  a  result  of  this 
latter  admonition,  I  did  both.  First,  I  purchased  a  drachm  of 
morphia,  a  syringe  in  an  aluminum  case,  a  complement  of  steel 
needles,  some  wire  and  absorbent  cotton  and  at  a  Chink  res- 
taurant I  bargained  for  a  spoon.  From  that  time  on,  I  never 
saw  or  heard  of  my  friend  ( ?)  again,  altho'  I  trafficked  in  this 
and  other  drugs  covering  intermittent  periods  of  thirty  years. 
This  morphine  "sleigh  rider"  was  therefore  the  mainspring  of 
my  epiphany  to  narcotism.   It  was  because  Gaston  Beauvais  had 


40 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


met  Andre  Gessonex  that  it  was  possible  for  Wormwood  to  be 
written,  and  it  is  because  I  met  up  with  this  dope,  a  fellow 
fleshed  in  iniquity  before  time,  that  it  is  possible  for  me  to  write 
these  chapters. 

hi  passim,  I  am  inclined  to  be  both  hypercritical  and  censor- 
ious about  this  quixotic  hombre;  altho'  the  less  said  of  him  the 
better.  He  was  a  spineless  worm,  with  a  two  by  four  intellect, 
a  cussed  low-down  lowlander.  Physiognomy  is  a  true  science. 
The  man  of  profound  thought,  the  man  of  active  ability  and 
above  all,  the  man  of  genius  has  his  character  stamped  on  his 
•countenance  by  nature.  The  man  of  violent  passions  and  the 
voluptuary  have  it  stamped  by  habit,  and  this  jeremy  diddler 
was  a  type.  Besides  this,  he  had  the  heaven-branded  features 
of  a  thief,  and  the  drug  hunched  him  to  commit  his  favorite 
pastime.  He  had  a  preference  for  this  sort  of  diversion.  To  him 
it  was  an  art.  If  he  had  the  option  of  having  money  given  him, 
he  would  rather  steal  it.  He  would  steal  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister. 
As  a  liar  he  always  assayed  one  hundred  per  cent.  He  would 
lie  with  such  volubility  that  one  would  think  truth  a  fool.  His 
very  appearance  reflected  a  wealth  of  picturesque  destitution 
and  his  chronic  addiction  to  morphia  was  so  accentuated  that  his 
mug  was  as  blanched  as  the  Dove  of  Paphos.  The  drug  had  un- 
doubtedly a  half  nelson  on  him.  He  had  the  brow  of  an  incen- 
diary, and  the  eyes  of  an  owl ;  besides  he  had  a  prognathous  jaw 
and  a  retrousee  nose.  Nature  most  certainly  committed  no 
blunder  in  the  formation  of  this  most  extraordinary  character. 

A  sawbones  ' '  shot ' '  me  for  a  week  and  after  this  I  flew  with 
my  own  wings.  I  was  on  the  job  for  nearly  three  decades  at 
intermittent  periods.  My  dope  rations  for  over  twelve  years 
increased  from  one-quarter  grain  to  forty-five  grains  per  day. 
Latterly  I  ran  the  gamut  of  narcotic  consumption  from  thirty 
to  fifty-five  grains,  or  nearly  one  drachm  per  day.  It  was  step 
by  step  that  I  reached  this  almost  incredible  maximum,  for  no 
man  ever  suddenly  arrived  at  the  summit  of  vice. 

Many  times  I  tried  to  break  away  from  the  demon,  which 
was  turning  me  into  a  bowelless  egoist.  A  hundred  times  I 
threw  the  kit  away  into  unfathomable  recesses,  and  as  I  thought 
as  far  as  the  Antipodes,  which,  with  the  return  of  the  reactionary 
state,  only  engendered  in  me  the  impulse  to  purchase  another. 
A  hundred  times  I  threw  away  the  hypodermic  syringe  as  far 
as  I  could  throw  it,  only  to  reclaim  it  when  the  nerves  were 
stung  by  the  reaction.  I  made  a  thousand  resolutions  to  re- 
nounce which  seemed  absolutely  irrevocable  while  lit  up  with 
the  dope,  but  no  sooner  than  the  reactionary  phases  came  about, 
all  renunciatory  oaths  were  like  unto  straw  to  the  fire  in  the 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


41 


blood  and  the  devil  in  the  nerves,  and  then  would  come  the 
full  fury  of  the  monomania  of  craving,  and  I  struggled  in  vain 
against  its  strange  and  irresistible  influence.  A  hundred  times 
so  keen  were  my  griefs,  that  I  was  tempted  to  relinquish  the 
struggle  and  as  many  times  I  triumphed,  the  unquenched  fire  of 
my  mind  but  burning  the  brighter  for  each  opposition.  Against 
the  seductions  of  this  artificial  pleasure,  I  belted  on  the  surcingle 
of  abstemiousness  with  dogged  resolution.  I  was  constantly 
battened  down  under  its  hatches,  but  these  were  periods  of 
spasmodic  repentance  only.  I  moralized  on  the  iniquity  of  drugs 
and  held  converse  with  my  own  soul.  Could  I  afford  it  from  a 
moral  viewpoint?  Recollection,  reason  and  penitence  swept 
down  upon  me  like  hawks  swooping  down  out  of  an  angry  sky. 
Hour  after  hour  I  paced  in  meditation  with  folded  arms  and 
bent  head,  thinking  of  all  that  had  been  or  might  have  been,  and 
after  severe  introspection,  the  last  few  months  rose  up  strongly 
within  me.  Again  and  again  all  that  I  had  seen  and  done  in  that 
crowded  interval  swept  by  my  eyes,  but  the  one  thing  that  stayed 
while  all  others  faded,  the  one  ever-present  shadow  among  so 
many,  was  the  remembrance  of  the  hypodermic.  I  laughed  and 
frowned  in  turn  to  myself  in  my  lonely  walks  to  find  how  the 
infernal  habit  was  growing  on  me.  Was  I  a  weakling  to  succumb 
thus  to  an  uncompromising  tyrant?  It  was  idle  nonsense.  I 
would  not  yield.  I  put  it  behind  me  and  thought  of  tomorrow, 
and  then  again  was  the  outline  of  the  FIEND  in  the  yellow  rift 
of  the  evening  sky.  And  even  the  evening  wind  outside  was 
whispering  as  it  came  sighing  over  the  face  of  nature,  and  it 
seemed  to  whisper  < 

"Never — Forever 
Forever — Never." 

And  there  was  something  more  behind  all  that  thought. 
There  were  eyes  focused  on  me,  wherever  in  my  fancy  I  saw 
them,  that  filled  me  with  a  strange  unrest,  and  a  whisper  behind 
the  whispers  that  issued  from  some  impalpable  and  invisible 
presence — a  fine,  thin,  music  that  played  upon  the  fibres  of  my 
heart,  a  presence  behind  a  haunting  presence,  a  meaning  behind 
a  meaning  that  stirred  me  with  the  strangest  fancies. 

A  hundred  times  I  made  up  my  mind  to  risk  the  unknown 
horrors  of  future  punishment  to  escape  the  maddening  tortures 
of  present  existence. 

A  periodic  dread  of  the  sight  of  man,  a  sudden  sense  of  my 
utter  separation  from  the  interests  of  the  transitory  beings 
-around  me,  wild  dreams,  days  of  immoderate  abstraction,  yet 


42 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


filled  with  the  breathing  picture  of  all  that  I  had  done  with  the 
hypodermic,  rose  before  me  with  such  intense  reality  that  I  lived 
again  thru  the  scene.  The  successive  progress  of  my  indulgence, 
the  swift  and  stinging  consciousness  of  condemnation,  the  flash 
of  fearful  knowledge  that  showed  me  futurity — all  were  felt  with 
the  keenness  of  a  being  from  whom  all  fleshly  nature  had  been 
stripped  away  and  the  soul  bared  by  every  visitation  of  pain,  I 
stood  like  a  disheveled  spirit  in  suffering. 

Chronic  addiction  makes  cowards  of  morphinomaniacs,  yet 
when  saturated  with  the  dope,  one  can  perform  stunts  that  would 
appal  human  credulity.  Burns  has  versified  that  whiskey  will 
make  one  fearless  of  the  devil ;  morphine  will  dispel  fear  of  God, 
man,  the  devil  or  the  Duke  of  Hell.    They  make  faces  at  fate. 

Ordinarily  fiends  begin  by  being  fools  and  end  in  becoming 
knaves.  They  are  playthings  of  the  devil,  liars  and  thieves.  But 
they  are  only  criminals  because  they  are  addicts.  They  have  no 
standing  before  the  tribunals  of  conscience  or  in  the  courts  of 
established  law.  The  victim  of  the  morphine  habit  is  no  longer 
a  normal  man,  but  he  is  an  eternally  polluted,  fallen  man.  He 
can  be  recognized  in  his  movements,  in  his  traits  and  in  his  gen- 
eral status  of  coma  and  the  pasty  appearance  of  his  visage  re- 
sembling a  wax  figure.  Their  moods  are  ever  mercurial,  so  that 
they  startle  even  the  slaves  of  morphia  themselves.  But  these 
moods  are  varied  by  others,  singularly  callous,  when  all  humanity 
seems  to  have  ebbed  from  the  nature  and  the  formula  of  the 
victim's  faith  might  be  a  paraphrase  of  the  Moslem.  They  live 
in  a  fool's  paradise;  they  are  lame  devils,  and  like  the  heathen 
Chinee,  their  ways  are  dark  and  their  tricks  are  vain.  The  main 
thing  that  they  fear  is  detention  on  a  law  charge,  thus  bringing 
about  a  denial  of  the  drug  and  when  held  by  the  law,  their  im- 
petuous and  fiery  natures  break  out  in  a  storm  of  rebellion. 

They  seldom  smile  and  their  laughter  is  of  such  an  extra- 
ordinary and  sardonic  nature — so  purely  a  mechanical  spasm, 
quite  independent  of  any  mirthful  attributes,  that  they  are 
minus  this  afflatus.  In  them  kindliness  and  fellow  feeling  are 
dumb — the  sheer  brute  ramps  free,  the  strong,  coarse  primal 
animal  which  morphia  rouses,  at  first  merely  to  a  savage  irrita- 
tion, but  later  informs  with  more  than  ape-like  cunning  with  a 
callous  cruelty  lower  than  the  brute's,  because  moved  by  more 
than  the  brute's  intelligence.    Their  moral  sense  is  blunted. 

Withal,  an  addict  when  doped  with  the  drug,  has  the  capacity 
of  unraveling  abstruse  cryptograms  that  would  puzzle  ancient  and 
modern  dogmaticians,  indulge  in  recondite  investigations,  delve 
creditable  in  the  mysteries  of  the  alchemists,  converse  on  icy 
algebraic  symbols,  deductive  and  inductive  ratiocination,  ex- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


43 


pound  the  meaning  or  moral  of  signs  and  tokens,  the  mystery  of 
the  unattainable,  the  procession  of  the  equinoxes,  the  accelera- 
tion of  gravity  and  even  decipher  the  hieroglyphics.  Learnedly 
could  they  discuss  the  atomic  theory  of  matter,  chemical  affinity, 
capillary  attraction  and  other  things  in  this  electro-magnetic 
world.  Their  moods  are  inconstant.  They  follow  no  ordered 
sequence.  Morphine  users  agonize  over  the  degrading  vice.  In 
this  they  drink  to  the  very  dregs,  the  cup  of  pennance.  At  inter- 
vals so  great  is  the  suffering  that  frequent  thoughts  of  suicide 
enter  the  mind,  and  by  this  means  they  are  willing  to  contemn 
the  unsubstantial  shows  of  the  world,  its  vanities,  dreams, 
shadows,  its  unrealities.  These  intervals  are  during  the  luridly 
lucid  moments  which  come  to  fine  natures  in  such  thrall — the 
moments  when  they  see  themselves  as  they  are — when  they  say 
with  appalled  realization :  "I  am  a  morphinomaniac.  I  would 
sacrifice  the  happiness  of  my  nearest  and  dearest  for  a  dose  of 
the  terrible  stuff  when  the  horror  of  lacking  it  is  upon  me. ' ' 

To  the  material  power  that  opium  exerts  over  the  immaterial 
part  of  fiends,  I  have  known  men  who  became  fiends  who  pos- 
sessed powerful  and  active  imaginations,  and  who  became  so 
indolent  in  the  great  world  of  action  that  they  reduced  them- 
selves to  the  level  of  those  sluggish  forms  of  animal  life  that  lurk 
in  the  depths  of  forests  and  take  the  form  of  vegetable  refuse, 
never  stirring  from  their  places  to  catch  their  easy  prey. 

The  question  has  often  been  asked  me  touching  the  reason  of 
my  utter  servility  to  drugs,  and  I  unhesitatingly  aver  that  it 
was  due  to  hedonism,  a  vicious  mole  of  nature,  temperament  and 
brain  construction,  which  primarily  brought  about  intemperance 
and  from  intemperance  to  narcoties.  All  of  these  were  wished 
upon  me  at  my  birth. 

Thus  I  became  a  fiend.  I  began  to  be  so  from  the  moment 
that  my  moral  nature  had  ceased  to  keep  the  pace  of  improve- 
ment with  my  intellect.  Having  therefore,  become  a  morphino- 
maniac by  and  thru  the  demon  intemperance,  the  unpardonable 
sin  as  the  origin  of  the  evil  of  drugs,  I  wantonly  continued  in  its 
use  and  took  the  flattering  poison  thereafter  simply  as  a  stimulus 
producing  pleasurable  sensations,  periods  of  pleasurable  quies- 
cence, nothing  more,  nothing  less.  To  me  it  was  myrrh  and 
storax,  chlorine  and  rosemary.  My  impatient  disposition  called 
for  this  artificial  stimulation.  I  never  learned  the  icy  precepts 
of  respect,  but  pursued  the  sugared  game.  I  therefore  may  have 
sinned  against  sound  feeling  by  touching  too  closely  and  han- 
dling too  freely  what  is  essentially  repulsive.  It  was  a  sin  that 
grew  within  my  own  breast — the  sin  of  an  intellect  that  trampled 


44 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


over  the  sense  of  brotherhood  with  man  and  reverence  for  God, 
and  sacrificed  everything  to  its  own  mighty  chains. 

I  was  a  born  hedonist,  an  unchangeable  licentiate,  an  adven- 
turous voluptuary,  a  congenital,  and  followed  this  bent  regard- 
less of  consequences.  I  thought  with  Epictetus,  that  the  greatest 
freedom  is  in  bondage.  I  gave  no  thought  to  any  dangers  in  the 
wake  of  the  drug.  I  probably  was  imbued  with  some  nebulous 
knowledge  about  certain  dangers  like  one  skimming  along  in  his 
shallop  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Niagara  Eiver  above  the  Falls, 
but  I  heeded  not.  I  thrust  myself  into  the  hell  of  morphinism 
looking  for  present  gratification  of  whimsical  notions.  In  this 
pursuit,  it  is  the  flowery  way  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate  and 
the  great  fire. 


CHAPTER  IV 


DE  QUINCY  THE  DOPE 


"Rightly  to  be  great 
Is  not  to  stir  without  great  argument 
But  rightly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw, 
When  honor's  at  the  stake." 

— Hamlet. 

Thomas  DeQuincy  in  his  "Confessions"  states  that  upon  the 
opium  question  generally  he  is  the  Pope.  A  thrasonical  declara- 
tion such  as  this  coming  from  one  who  used  the  drug  inter- 
mittently for  half  a  century,  would  dishearten  the  average  con- 
troversialist relative  to  conclusions  finally  reached  by  him.  But 
it  gives  me  courage  to  close  with  him  from  the  fact  that  after 
having  used  the  drug  myself  for  nearly  thirty  years,  I  regard 
myself  a  connoisseur.  Therefore  if  Mr.  DeQuincy  is  the  dope, 
as  well  as  the  Pope,  I  claim  to  be  the  Dean,  the  Patron  Saint,  the 
Magnus  Apollo  on  the  opium  question.  But  here  is  a  difference 
between  us.  DeQuincy  used  laudanum  and  the  crude  brown 
plastic  gum  resin  and  I  used  the  sulphate  of  morphia  (which  is 
a  salt  of  sulphuric  acid),  the  feathery,  silky  needles  and  cubes, 
its  narcotic  principle.  Laudanum  is  known  in  the  dispensatory 
as  tincture  opii,  and  is  milder  than  the  sulphate,  for  the  reason 
that  in  its  preparation  it  is  blended  with  proof  spirits.  Opium, 
using  the  term  in  its  generic  sense,  including  all  of  its  deriva- 
tives, such  as  morphine,  codeine  (an  alkaloid  derived  from  mor- 
phine), narcotine,  the  active  principle  of  opium,  laudanum,  wine 
of  opium,  the  latter  containing  10  per  cent  granulated  opium, 
cinnamon  and  cloves,  alcohol  and  white  wine,  tincture  opium 
camphorated,  better  wnown  as  paregoric  and  containing  opium, 
benzoic  acid  and  camphor,  powder  ipecac  and  opium,  Dover's 
Powders,  Tully's  Powders,  Brown's  Mixture  and  the  tenderloin 
preparation,  heroin,  (succedaneum  of  morphine  treated  with 
acetic  acid),  or  any  preparation  of  opium  or  where  opium  is  a 
component  part,  notably  Dr.  Isaac  Thompson's  well-known  eye 
water,  which  contains  one-half  grain  of  opium  to  the  ounce,  has 


46 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  same  virtue.  The  virtue  exerted  depends  upon  the  dose. 
Mr.  DeQuincy  contends  that  he  used  eight  thousand  drops  of 
laudanum  and  twenty-five  drops  of  laudanum  are  equivalent  to 
one  grain  of  opium.  He  was,  therefore,  habituated  to  three 
hundred  and  twenty  grains  of  opium  per  day.  Here  is  another 
difference.  DeQuincy  used  opium  by  the  mouth,  that  is, 
laudanum  and  the  pungently  sweetish  brown  pills  and  I  intro- 
duced the  drug  hypodermically.  Eegardless  of  the  relative 
strength  of  morphine  and  the  crude  opium,  I  dispute  his  declara- 
tion that  "In  less  than  120  days  no  habit  of  opium  eating  could 
be  formed  strong  enough  to  call  for  any  extraordinary  self- 
conquest  in  renouncing  it,  or  even  suddenly  renouncing  it." 

To  a  chronic  habitue  bound  in  the  tentacula  of  this  poison 
for  three  decades,  the  ipse  dixit  of  the  dope  descends  upon  me  as 
a  most  preposterous  frame-up. 

0,  ye  shades  of  opium  addicts  passed  to  a  new  dope  world, 
would  that  you  were  dowered  with  the  auditory  sense  and  inocu- 
lated with  the  voltaic  pile,  so  that  you  could  rise  above  the 
funereal  vapors  and  veto  the  declaration  of  the  dope !  And  you 
who  are  still  on  the  ball,  hearken  to  the  sophistry  of  the  dope! 

One  may  become  habituated  within  the  period  of  two  weeks 
and  did  he  not  have  the  capacity  of  self-will  to  then  renounce, 
his  addiction  would  become  chronic.  Cases  are  on  record  where 
patients  who  have  taken  opium  in  any  form  under  the  familiar 
disguise  of  medicine,  afterwards  craved  for  the  same  medicine, 
and  ultimately  became  bounden  slaves.  The  question  would 
therefore  resolve  itself  into  the  proposition  of  self-will,  and 
obviously,  one  devoid  of  discretionary  calibre  would  wantonly 
surrender  to  its  seductions.  There  might  be  constitutional  con- 
ditions in  certain  cases  where  one  could  with  less  effort  renounce 
after  two  weeks'  use. 

The  elevation  of  spirits  produced  by  opium  is  not  necessarily 
followed  by  a  proportionate  depression.  There  is  no  torpor  or 
stagnation,  animal  or  mental,  following  as  a  natural  or  even 
immediate  consequence  of  opium. 

"The  varieties  of  effect  produced  by  opium  on  different 
constitutions  are  infinite."  These  are  Mr.  DeQuincy 's  own 
words.  In  these  cases  the  blood  is  tame,  but  where  the  blood  is 
warm,  and  there  is  a  want  of  discretion  in  the  subject,  he  would 
succumb.  In  the  primary  stages  exhilaration  is  produced,  yet  I 
have  heard  it  declared  by  some  persons  who  were  given  shots  of 
morphine  that  the  "shots"  produced  no  exhilaration  whatever. 
I  believe  that  each  dose  diminishes  the  power  of  resistance  and 
if  a  non-addict  is  powerless  to  break  away  after  two  weeks' 
traffic,  how  can  he  be  expected  to  break  away  after  a  continuous 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


47 


traffic  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  days?  To  attempt  to  do  so, 
the  subject  would  be  thrown  into  a  status  of  the  most  deplorable 
mental  distraction  and  physical  collapse.  Any  effort  to  renounce 
suddently  when  subjugated  in  its  chains,  would  result  in  an 
insatiable  craving  for  a  "shot,"  a  "jolt,"  or  a  "pill."  All 
vows  would  become  as  straw  to  the  fire  in  the  blood,  and  the 
subject  would  find  himself  in  a  state  of  physical  collapse,  wholly 
unapproachable  by  the  feeble  vehicle  of  words.  In  fact,  the  term 
' '  endless  dolor, ' '  expressive  enough,  is  feeble  in  expression.  The 
drug  fiend  would  suffer  smartingly  under  the  fires  of  abstin- 
ence, for  morphine  cries  out  in  such  a  case :  ' '  Vengeance  is 
mine;  I  will  repay,"  and  such  a  repayment  is  deadly  ennui  of 
life.  The  subject  would  move  heaven  and  earth  by  the  lever  of 
resourcefulness,  and  there  is  no  expedient  to  which  he  would  not 
resort  to  procure  the  cursed  elixir  and  thus  sweeten  his  blood, 
sustain  the  drooping  animal  energies  and  restore  him  to  an 
equipoise  of  cloudless  serenity.  Necessity  is  a  powerful  weapon 
and  has  no  law.  He  would  invade  holy  sanctums  and  places 
where  angels  fear  to  tread.  He  would  not  hesitate  to  prise  the 
gates  of  hell  or  leap  up  with  elastic  step  the  stairs  of  paradise, 
into  the  very  presence  of  Jehovah.  He  would  do  things  that 
would  paralyze  the  moral  senses.  Murder  would  be  a  mere 
pastime,  if,  by  its  commission,  relief  would  come,  and  he  would 
be  induced  to  commit  any  crime  by  an  implacable  cupidity.  As 
hunger  obeys  no  laws,  a  priori,  the  want  of  dope  obeys  none 
either. 

I  maintain  that  one  addicted  to  opium  in  any  form  embracing 
the  period  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  days  would  become  a  can- 
didate for  Doctor  Dippy 's  sanitarium,  if  the  drug  were  sud- 
denly withdrawn.  Further,  that  in  sudden  withdrawal,  the  sub- 
ject if  unrestrained,  would  commit  suicide.  The  pathological 
horrors  are  so  terrible  that  he  would  slay  himself  to  be  free  and 
I  could  not  blame  him.  O,  that  death  would  in  mercy  intervene, 
and  thus  cut  short  a  season  of  endless  dolor ! 

I  further  maintain  that  if  in  such  cases,  the  reflex  nerves 
failed  to  perform  their  duty,  the  subject  would  become  a 
howling,  defying,  shouting,  reeling,  raving,  foaming  maniac. 

There  would  be  just  as  much  suffering  consequent  upon  a 
sudden  renunciation  of  the  use  of  the  drug  after  four  months, 
as  there  would  be  after  four  years.  DeQuincy  says  that  he  ' '  con- 
tended four  times  successfully  against  the  dominion  and  did  four 
times  renounce  it  for  long  intervals."  If  he  did  so,  he  must 
have  gone  back  to  its  use  at  least  three  different  times.  Since 
the  record  is  silent,  why  did  he  go  back?  Was  it  due  to  a  re- 
currence of  rheumatism  of  the  face  and  toothache?    As  a  gen- 


48 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


eral  proposition,  considering  the  very  seductive  quality  of  opium, 
men  fall  before  the  assaults  of  temptation.  Did  DeQuincy  so 
fall? 

I  know  that  much  the  same  inducements  and  alarms  cast  the 
die  for  any  tempted  and  trembling  sinner,  and  it  fell  out  with 
me  as  it  falls  out  with  so  vast  a  majority  of  my  fellows  in  nar- 
cotic traffic,  that  I  chose  the  better  part  and  was  found  wanting 
in  the  strength  to  keep  it.  I  had  voluntarily  stripped  myself  of 
all  those  balancing  instincts  by  which  even  the  worst  of  us  con- 
tinues to  walk  with  some  degree  of  steadiness  among  temptations, 
and  in  my  case  to  be  tempted,  however  slightly  was  to  fall.  He 
conquers  a  second  time  who  controls  himself  in  victory.  Truly 
'tis  dangerous  when  the  lesser  nature  comes  between  the  pass 
and  fell  incensed  points  of  mighty  opposites! 

The  final  judgment  and  deliberate  award  of  Mr.  DeQuincy 
upon  the  two  following  propositions  which  he  variously  terms 
popular  misconceptions,  popular  dilemmas  and  ugly  scandals: 
first,  the  supposed  necessity  of  continually  clamoring  for  in- 
creasing quantities,  and  secondly,  its  supposed  corresponding 
declension  in  power  and  efficacy,  is  blank  denial  on  his  part. 
These  are  absurd  conclusions,  and  absurdities  need  not  be  proved. 

I  believe  that  it  is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  increase  the 
dose  in  order  to  derive  from  the  drug  its  essential  virtues,  but 
one  does  this  under  the  misleading  hypothesis  that  it  is  necessary. 
It  is  a  false  conception  of  the  mind.  A  morphine  fiend  cannot 
keep  within  bounds. 

I  also  believe  that  the  virtues  diffused  by  morphine  become 
less  as  chronic  habituation  advances,  because  the  constitutional 
economy  having  become  impoverished  or  overworked,  larger 
rations  may  be  proper.  In  seeking  the  light,  I  may  be  groping 
in  the  dark.  Par  Parenthese,  the  animal  economy  is  much  like  a 
tract  of  land  that  has  been  repeatedly  planted  to  the  same  crop, 
and  having  become  worn  out  and  denuded  of  its  essential  fer- 
tility, resort  must  be  had  to  artificial  fertilization.  In  the  case 
of  the  tissues  becoming  less  sensitive  and  unresponsive,  there  is 
created  a  lust  of  the  nerves  that  prompts  this  increased  dosage, 
yet  it  is  a  delusion  from  which  the  chronic  habitue  cannot  escape. 
The  primary  effects  of  opium  are  mental  exhilaration,  physical 
relaxation  and  general  buoyancy,  and  these  last  for  about  from 
three  to  four  months,  after  which  succeeds  this  lust  of  the  nerves. 
When  these  effects  have  been  spent  he  lapses  into  silence,  in- 
expressible despondency,  interspersed  with  fantasies,  trances  and 
the  most  profound  reveries,  and  he  becomes  as  restless  as  a 
panther.    The  morphine  fiend  is  bound  in  the  fetters  of  an  un- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


49 


compromising  dictator  and  he  continues  in  its  use  in  order  to 
sustain  his  functional  equipoise. 

Borrowing  legal  parlance,  one  continues  in  its  use  (or  abuse, 
which?)  to  circumvent  the  pathological  horrors,  the  morbid 
process,  the  black  reaction,  the  restlessness,  the  lassitude  and  the 
acute  mental  depression  following  summary  withdrawal.  He 
continues  to  circumvent  the  "blue  devils,"  an  abyss  of  untold 
mental  abstraction  and  unspeakable  physical  malaise.  Indul- 
gence is  granted  to  necessity  and  necessity  knows  no  law. 

This  craving,  this  lust  of  the  nerves,  becomes  an  obsession,  a 
mania,  and,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  "will  not  down."  It  breaks 
down  all  resolutions,  even  if  scrawled  like  the  code  of  Draco  in 
blood.   It  is  a  devil  that  tempts  and  insinuates  against  all  odds. 

In  all  my  varied  experience  as  a  wanton  trafficker  in  this 
poison,  commencing  with  one-eighth  of  a  grain  and  ascending  to 
the  grand  maximum  of  sixty  grains  per  day,  I  at  no  time  ran 
across  a  case  of  sudden  withdrawal,  where  the  patient  by  his  own 
choice  withdrew,  where  a  cure  was  effected.  The  subject  ulti- 
mately lapsed  back  into  the  old  groove.  There  may  be  cases 
where  addicts  have  been  peremptorily  thrown  into  prison,  and 
under  a  strict  curriculum  of  discipline  there,  they  have  under- 
gone an  eternity  of  suffering  before  their  final  emancipation. 
But  such  cases  are  those  of  forced  self-denial. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  "possuming"  in  dope  habituation. 
Transcendent  nerve  is  required  to  do  things  upon  the  dizzy  ball. 
The  records  of  history  regale  us  with  the  announcement  of  tours 
de  force  that  paralyze  the  imagination,  but  I  unhesitatingly  say 
that  the  most  indomitable  nerve  is  powerless  to  phase  this  uncon- 
conquerable  despot.  One  might  suddenly  quit  tobacco;  one 
might  suddenly  break  away  from  the  use  of  coffee;  one  might 
relinquish  cocaine  when  one  became  a  chronic  user  of  it,  as  this 
drug  is  not  a  habit-forming  drug.  One  might  do  all  of  these 
things  with  impunity,  beard  the  lion  in  his  den,  the  Douglas  in 
his  hall,  but  with  profound  emphasis  do  I  assert  that  one  could 
not  suddenly  renounce  opium  in  any  of  its  chemical  forms,  when 
one  became  habituated  to  it,  without  suffering  the  pangs  of  de- 
privation. He  who  will  resolve  so  and  carry  it  to  a  successful 
issue  is  yet  to  be  fashioned  by  God ;  for  at  the  present  time,  he  is 
non  est  inventus. 

It  is  not  that  one  cannot  do  it ;  it  is  that  one  won 't  do  it. 

Par  Parenthese,  there  is  unqualifiedly  no  substitute  for  the 
drug  in  such  dilemmas.  The  drug  itself  is  the  only  "sweet, 
oblivious  antidote" — like  begets  like. 

Recurring  to  the  first  popular  misconception,  namely,  the 
supposed  necessity  of  continually  clamoring  for  increasing  quan- 


50 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


tities,  the  drug  slave  nurses  the  delusion  that  if  one  pill  will 
work  certain  wonders,  an  additional  pill  will  do  more,  and  so  on 
ad  infinitum. 

Excessive  dosage  of  any  substance  in  the  materia  medica 
having  toxic  properties,  will  lead  to  dissolution,  except  in  the 
case  of  chronic  habitues  to  opium  in  taking  excessive  doses  of 
that  particular  drug.  Au  contraire,  it  has  been  established  be- 
yond the  jugglery  of  dispute  that  one-half  grain  of  morphia  will 
cause  death  if  administered  to  one  not  tolerated  to  it,  and 
further  that  an  inordinately  excessive  dose  would  not  kill  him 
if  he  were  kept  awake  until  its  effects  had  subsided.  "What 
would  happen  in  the  event,  of  being  subjected  to  repeated  sub- 
cutaneous injections  of  the  poison  until  the  circulation  became 
inadequate  to  take  the  injections  up,  or  in  any  manner  the  blood 
defaulted  in  responding  to  such  abnormal  intake,  is  a  conjectural 
proposition,  and  in  the  language  of  the  card  player,  "I  respect- 
fully beg  leave  to  pass ! "  I  believe,  however,  that  the  last  ounce 
would  break  the  camel's  back,  and  that  such  dosage  would  be 
requited  by  swift  and  fatal  punishment. 

I  am  therefore  compelled  to  draw  swords  with  DeQuincy,  the 
dope,  notwithstanding  that  he  is  the  facile  princeps  upon  all 
questions  pertaining  to  opium.  As  a  dialectician,  I  am  sup- 
ported in  the  views  herein  expressed  from  the  fact  that  Mr. 
DeQuincy  himself  says  that  he  "never  followed  out  the  seduc- 
tions of  opium  to  their  final  extremity  and  cannot,  therefore, 
deliver  any  oracular  judgment  therein."  I  claim  to  have  fol- 
lowed them  out  to  their  final  extremity  and  may  sermonize  to 
society  upon  them.  At  least,  my  declarations  may  be  regarded 
ex  cathedra.  They  have  been  proven  to  me  with  all  the  certainty 
of  a  mathematical  equation.  They  are  as  infallible  to  me  as  so 
many  propositions  of  euclid.  They  are  not  those  of  a  student, 
but  rather  of  a  dogmatician. 


CHAPTER  V 


OPIUM  DREAMS 


Romeo : 

Mercutio 

Romeo: 

Mercutio 

Romeo: 


"I  dreamed  a  dream  tonight. 


And  so  did  I. 
Well,  what  was  yours? 


That  dreamers  often  lie 
In  bed  asleep,  while  they  do  dream  things  true. 


— Romeo  and  Juliet. 


To  this  subtle  drug*  I  am  indebted  for  having  electrified 
courts  and  juries  and  for  verdicts  rendered  by  the  elastic  dozen. 
The  drug  is  a  potential  factor  in  releasing  from  the  fretted  al- 
coves of  the  mind  where  are  stored  trite  aphorisms,  pungent 
quotations,  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law  and  apt  utterances  that 
embellish  forensic  degladiation,  force  popular  plaudits  and  wring 
verdicts  from  the  apostolic  twelve.  The  brain  becomes  electrified 
and  the  imagination  becomes  the  artist  of  the  soul,  and  this 
faculty  runs  riot  under  the  stress.  The  imagination  is  the  use 
which  nature  makes  of  the  material  world.  It  hypnotizes  us  into 
painting  pictures  that  give  color  to  our  contentions,  and  makes 
us  see  life  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  and  again  "face  to  face."  It 
makes  us  look  thru  the  big  end  of  the  telescope  of  life  and  get  the 
broad,  optimistic  view,  or  else  thru  the  little  end  and  get  the 
narrow,  pessimistic  view.  It  resurrects  ideas  that  were  begot  in 
the  ventricle  of  memory,  nourished  in  the  womb  of  pia  mater  and 
delivered  upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion.  True,  our  imagina- 
tions are  as  foul  as  Vulcan's  stithy.  It  is  a  despot  that  clothes 
our  discourses  with  roses.  It  is  the  mater  key — the  passe  partout 
— that  enriches  phraseology. 

In  the  enchanted  dreamland  of  the  nether  world  of  sleep,  one 
is  instantly  reminded  of  felicitous  phrase,  gorgeous  adjectives, 
sharp  epigrams,  flowers  of  wit,  melodious  verse,  grandiose  mag- 
niloquence and  the  sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric.  In  parliamentary 
jugglery,  peculiar  figures  of  speech,  a  whole  family,  a  torrent 
of  rhetorical  effusions,  classical  metaphors  and  the  wild  beauty 
of  hyperboles,  Homeric  strophes,  airy  parables,  come  lisping  for 


52 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


utterance.  One  indulging  in  repartee,  may  hurl  the  most  vitri- 
olic shafts,  the  most  venomous  and  palsying  philippics.  The 
linguistic  flow  in  eagle  flights  of  oratory  proceeds  in  rythmical 
cadence,  ending  in  polished  periods.  Facts  are  habited  in  rhe- 
torical diction  and  bring  conviction  like  the  descent  of  a  Niagara. 
One's  words  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet  with  just  so  many 
rare  dishes,  and  these  are  pronounced  trippingly  on  the  tongue 
with  stridulous  fluency. 

I  cannot  subscribe  to  the  doctrine  that  "dreams  are  but  the 
children  of  an  idle  brain,  begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy." 
Neither  do  I  regard  a  dream  itself  as  but  a  shadow,  nor  that  men 
are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  and  that  our  little  life  is 
rounded  with  a  sleep.  I  do  believe,  however,  that  most  dreams 
indicate  some  deep  wish  that  lies  dormant  in  the  dreamer. 

The  dreams  that  proceed  from  the  soporific  and  hypnotic 
virtues  of  the  drug  are  angelic,  elevating,  uplifting.  When 
mantled  by  the  drapery  of  sleep  one  is  wrapped  in  "Buddha's 
mighty  thought,  and  dreams  all  dreams  that  light,  the  alchemist, 
has  wrought  from  dust  and  dew  and  stored  within  the  slumbrous 
poppy's  subtle  blood."  Carried  by  Cuvier's  fancy,  one  hangs  as 
if  suspended  by  a  magician's  wand  over  the  illimitable  abyss  of 
the  past  which  appears  before  one  in  a  clear  and  definite  vision. 
Under  the  dominion  of  Queen  Mab,  one's  spirits  are  all  bound 
up.  I  recall  a  picture  where  the  most  superb  light  burst  upon 
my  dazzled  eyes ;  a  roof  of  seeming  gold  arched  so  high  that  even 
its  splendor  was  partially  dimmed;  walls  of  apparent  diamond, 
pillared  with  a  thousand  columns  of  every  precious  gem,  whole 
shafts  of  emerald,  pavilions  of  jasper,  a  floor  as  far  as  the  glance 
could  pierce  studded  with  amethyst  and  ruby — apparent  treas- 
ures to*  which  the  accumulated  spoils  of  the  Greek  or  the  Persian 
were  nothing.  Everything  glittered  with  gem-like  radiance. 
The  floor  was  of  alternate  squares  of  black  and  white  marble. 
The  enormous  pillars  intersected  longitudinally,  and  supported 
the  return  of  the  double  vaulted  roof.  The  tall  pointed  windows 
glazed  with  panes  of  a  thousand  hues  and  the  whole,  ceiling, 
pillars,  walls,  wainscoat,  doors,  statues  covered  from  top  to 
bottom  with  a  splendid  coloring  of  blue  and  gold. 

As  an  antithesis  to  this,  I  have  seen  in  my  dreams  hydra- 
headed  monsters  with  the  talons  of  a  dragon,  the  tail  of  a 
diplodocus — I  have  dreamed  of  living  monsters  of  hideous  con- 
formation with  a  representation  of  a  death's  head  covering  their 
breasts,  with  gleaming  antennae  projecting  from  their  probos- 
cides;  of  strange  animals  with  scarlet  teeth  and  claws;  of  barn- 
yard turkeys  with  mushroom  hats  brandishing  clubs  and  beckon- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


53 


ing  me  to  the  nether  world.  These  latter  dreams  abused  the  cur- 
tained sleep. 

There  was  no  height  to  which  I  did  not  ascend,  and  no  bottom- 
less pit  to  which  I  did  not  descend.  In  some  of  these  flights  and 
falls,  what  cruel  disillusionments  and  what  rude  awakenings! 

I  saw  innumerable  caravans  of  lost  souls  moving  in  tongueless 
silence  in  the  City  of  Dreadful  Night.  I  beheld  departed  souls 
driven  thru  the  shades  of  Tartarus  like  dead  leaves.  I  saw  more 
devils  than  the  vastness  of  hell  itself  could  hold.  Upon  the 
portico  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  I  read  the  salutation,  "  Leave 
hope  behind,  all  ye  who  enter  here, ' '  in  letters  of  livid  flame.  I 
heard  the  dying  cry  of  hell's  inhabitants  sounding  in  my  ears 
like  the  wails  of  disembodied  spirits.  I  saw  dry  bones  in  the 
valley  of  death,  dressed  in  the  cunning  livery  of  hell.  I  heard 
the  cry  of  the  damned  from  the  very  pit  of  hell.  I  perceived 
these  utterly  lost  pilgrims  more  acutely  within  the  dungeons  of 
the  damned,  and  on  their  foreheads  was  written  the  hie  jacet  of 
souls  dead  within.  Swarms  of  spectres  rose  from  deepest  hell 
with  bloodless  visage  and  with  hideous  yell;  they  scream,  they 
shriek,  sad  groans  and  dismal  sounds  stun  my  scared  ears  and 
pierce  hell's  utmost  bounds. 

As  a  physiological  aftermath  of  excessive  traffic  in  opium, 
the  nerve  centers  are  radically  attacked,  and  it  is  axiomatic  that 
one  is  a  day-dreamer  during  the  waking  hours,  the  poison  is  the 
mainspring  that  produces  hideous,  incarnate  nightmares  while 
asleep.  While  lying  upon  my  back  I  have  been  gripped  by  the 
tentacula  of  this  octopus  with  such  firmness  that  I  thought  cor- 
poral activity  impossible.  I  would  remain  as  immovable  as  a 
monument  of  victory,  as  I  struggled  violently  with  the  fearful 
apathy  that  held  my  limbs.  And  when  mounted  upon  these 
nightmares,  what  steeple  chases  I  rode  up  and  down  the  high- 
ways and  byways  of  horror !  One  struggles,  bound  by  that  ter- 
rible powerlessness  which  paralyzes  us  in  our  dreams.  One  tries 
to  move  or  cry  out,  and  on  all  sides  life  seems  to  enclose  one  like 
a  horrible  wall.  All  kinds  of  outlandish  predicaments  presented 
themselves  to  me  during  these  nightmares,  and  particularly  that 
of  being  held  in  the  clutches  of  some  fiendish  devil.  In  the  act 
of  falling  from  some  elevated  position,  I  always  awoke  to  a  sense 
of  the  surroundings  and  a  certain  wild  terror  of  the  soul. 

While  the  immediate  and  predisposing  cause  of  this  strange 
physical  phenomena  of  suspended  animation  flows  from  nerve 
bankruptcy,  there  seems  but  a  single  distinction  between  the 
hideous  monster  and  the  juggernaut  of  catalepsy.  While  in 
either  case  there  is  an  external  immobility,  in  the  former  one  is 
sensible,  in  the  latter  one  is  senseless.    In  nightmare  there  is  a 


54 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


total  cessation  of  all  the  apparent  functions  of  vitality,  and  yet 
in  which  these  cessations  are  merely  suspensions,  temporary 
pauses  in  the  incomprehensible  mechanism.  One  is  a  lethargy  of 
motion,  the  other  a  lethargy  of  both  motion  and  sensibility.  In 
nightmare,  one  is  without  the  ability  to  stir,  but  he  has  the 
capacity  to  think.  The  psychic  symptoms  of  nightmare  are 
chiefly  made  up  of  fear,  together  with  a  feeling  of  utter  help- 
lessness. This  is  not  strange  when  it  is  considered  that  the  brain 
cells  are  heavily  charged  with  the  poison  and  a  violent  irritation 
has  been  set  up  in  the  nerve  tissues.  The  blood  is  contaminated, 
and  its  flow  from  the  heart  is  irregular,  and  might  produce 
epilepsy.  As  between  these  two,  I  believe  that  I  would  prefer 
the  cataleptic  trance,  which  in  fact  is  indistinguishable  from 
death  itself,  for  in  this  latter,  there  is  no  consciousness  of  life. 
Total  annihilation  would  be  still  more  preferable,  for  this  would 
deliver  one  of  all  earthly  woes. 

In  these  opium  dreams  there  appeared  a  weird  assembling  of 
persons  whom  I  had  known  in  the  long  ago,  and  those  whom  I 
knew  in  succeeding  years,  and  these  in  turn  were  unknown  to 
one  another,  because  removed  by  geographical  lines.  Upon  man- 
kind at  large  the  events  of  very  early  existence  rarely  leave  in 
mature  age  any  definite  impression.  All  is  gray  shadow — a 
weak,  irregular  remembrance — an  indistinct  regathering  of 
feeble  pleasures  and  phantasmagoric  pains.  With  me  this  is  not 
so,  for  in  childhood  I  must  have  felt  with  the  energy  of  a  man 
what  I  now  find  stamped  upon  memory  in  lines  as  vivid,  as  deep 
and  as  durable  as  the  exergues  of  the  Carthaginian  medals. 
Even  the  earliest  memories  were  recalled  in  my  childhood.  They 
reappear  under  the  passions  like  the  traces  of  the  palimpsest 
under  the  erasure.  Youth  and  observation  had  copied  many 
things,  and  these  were  depicted  clearly  to  me.  By  the  remorse- 
less drive  of  time,  these  incidents  were  forgotten  and  would  have 
remained  forever  entombed,  but  for  the  luminous  architecture 
of  the  dream  films.  These  strangers  met  together  just  as  I  had 
known  them  in  life,  attired  in  the  same  habiliments  that  the  eye 
of  recollection  noticed  as  having  been  worn  by  them  in  former 
years,  and  these  habiliments  suffered  no  change  by  the  silent 
flight  of  the  raven-winged  hours.  Some  of  them  had  been  dead 
for  years,  but  this  fact  made  no  difference  with  the  scene  shifter 
in  these  dreams.  For  instance,  if  the  locus  in  quo  happened  at 
the  home  of  my  birth  in  the  effete  East,  familiar  forms  were 
snatched  from  the  West  and  became  actors  on  the  stage  erected 
by  dreamland.  The  broncho  buster  of  the  West  met  the  tender- 
foot of  the  East.  Improbable  situations  were  presented,  and  they 
stand  out  now  in  my  memory  more  clearly  than  anything  which 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


55 


I  have  ever  seen  with  my  waking  eyes.  There  is  an  absolute 
inability  to  perceive  the  absurdity  and  impossibility  of  the  events 
which  appear  to  happen  in  dreams.  There  is  no  sense  of  time 
and  transition  from  one  personality  to  another,  and  from  one 
scene  to  another  takes  place  without  least  surprise  on  the  part  of 
the  dreamer.  I  believe  in  the  vaso-motor  theory  which  bases 
sleep  upon  the  contraction  of  the  blood  vessels  of  the  brain.  Such 
are  the  tricks  and  the  freaks  played  by  memory  in  this  dream 
scenery,  which,  defying  scientific  analysis,  must  repose  in  the 
dark  chambers  of  indefinable  mysticism  and  which  conducts  me 
to  the  conclusion  that  songes  sont  mensonges. 

Here  is  another  dream.  Suddenly  I  seemed  to  be  floating  in 
space.  I  had  no  sense  of  my  spirit  being  confined  in  my  body. 
My  person  seemed  to  have  no  particular  shape.  I  had  a  great 
sense  of  peace,  joy  and  contentment.  I  had  recollection,  too,  but 
the  outstanding  events  of  my  life  were  but  a  dream.  It  seemed 
that  I  was  progressing  towards  a  definite  goal,  thru  an  intense, 
velvety  blackness  by  which  I  was  surrounded.  At  another  time 
I  found  myself  in  the  great  deep  of  utter  and  complete  darkness. 
Again  I  was  floating,  apparently  on  a  strong  current  which  was 
taking  me  towards  some  predestined  goal.  Then  suddenly  I  saw 
a  brilliant  light,  more  powerful  than  the  sun,  which  seemed 
to  illuminate  a  boundless  space.  I  was  going  toward  it  at  a  ter- 
rible speed.  It  seemed  that  after  aeons  and  aeons  had  passed,, 
my  consciousness  returned,  and  I  found  myself  amid  familiar 
surroundings.  Those  about  me  told  me  that  my  face  had  the 
death  pallor,  my  hands  and  feet  were  cold  and  my  heart  was  not 
beating. 

Some  of  these  dreams  were  most  uneasy.  Hideous  objects 
seemed  to  pass  before  my  eyes.  I  was  continually  in  the  most 
dangerous  and  appalling  situations:  stairs  that  I  endeavored  to 
ascend  seemed  to  crumble  beneath  my  feet,  and  thruout  I  went 
thru  all  the  most  terrible  spasms  of  nightmare ;  but  above  every- 
thing I  seemed  to  feel  a  pressure  upon  my  breast  and  a  cold, 
clammy  weight  that  appeared  to  stifle  me  and  to  be  crushing  out 
my  very  existence.  With  a  start  at  last  I  awoke  and  found  my 
household  cat  purring  on  my  breast. 

In  spite  of  all  these,  I  beheld  gorgeous  spectacles  at  other 
times  of  more  than  sublunary  magnificence.  The  Fall  of  Baby- 
lon, the  Pompeian  tremblement  de  terre,  the  burning  of  Rome, 
the  massacre  of  the  Christians,  the  triumphal  return  of  a  warrior 
with  his  victorious  legions,  the  war  of  the  worlds,  all  of  which  I 
had  read  about,  and  some  of  which  I  had  really  seen,  together 


56  THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


with  the  spectacle  of  the  sea  giving  up  its  dead — all  of  these 
were  pictorially  illustrated  in  prismatic  pellucidity. 

As  a  morphine  fiend  has  no  conception  of  the  motion  of  time, 
time,  the  great  braggart  and  bully  of  life,  like  those  who  fight  in 
the  dim  twilight  of  the  trenches,  even  in  his  day-dreaming,  so  it 
is  that  while  steeped  in  the  beguilement  of  sleep,  one  seems  to 
live  one  hundred  years  in  a  single  night. 

O,  Opium,  thou  mysterious,  subtle  and  seductive  resin !  Thou 
art  the  peerless  tranquillizer  of  the  vital  forces !  O,  thou  slum- 
brous poppy,  thou  hast  in  thy  subtle  blood  the  elixir  to  endow 
the  body  with  strength  to  resist  the  effects  of  time,  of  violence  or 
of  disease !  Thou  art  the  assassin  of  pain,  of  languor,  of  tedium 
vitae,  thou  art  the  briber  of  death !  Under  thy  potent  spell  thou 
art  able  to  metamorphose  old  age  to  youth,  banish  the  hectic 
flush  from  the  tubercular  cheek,  let  fall  the  crutches  from  the 
cripple,  the  shackles  from  the  limbs  of  disease !  Thou  restorest 
the  neurasthenic  and  those  cursed  by  neurotic  malaise  to  a  state 
of  cloudless  serenity !  Thou  chaseth  to  the  realms  of  innocuous 
desuetude  the  detestable  scourges  of  languor,  listlessness  and 
ennui!  Thou  hast  the  key  to  an  Elysium  of  sweet  slumber,  the 
mother  of  wondrous  dreams !  Thou  hast  power  to  make  one 
sleep  out  the  great  gap  of  time !  Within  thy  seductive  embrace 
and  under  thy  tutelary  powers,  one  may  live  a  thousand  years  in 
a  single  night !  Whether  distorted  by  the  ravages  of  disease, 
reduced  to  abject  beggary  by  ill-fortune  or  bent  by  the  flight  of 
years,  thou  canst  introduce  the  elastic  step  and  maintain  one  in 
works  of  supererogation  and  preternatural  requisitions  for  the 
expenditure  of  human  energy !  Thou  givest  courage  to  the  hope- 
less and  thou  holdest  out  hope  to  the  lost !  Thou  changest  one 's 
pumpkin  to  a  coach  and  four,  0,  thou  mighty  mandragora ! 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  RADIANCE  OF  OPIUM  VISIONS 


"Sometimes  a  thousand  twanging  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears  and  sometimes  voices 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked,  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again;  and  then  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds  methought,  would  open  and  show  riches, 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me,  that,  when  I  waked, 
I  cried  to  dream  again." 

— The  Tempest. 

I  have  no  power  to  describe  the  marvelous  incidents  that  un- 
folded themselves  as  the  gloom  of  the  night  disappeared.  They 
passed  before  the  gaze  and  passed  away  rapidly,  fleeting  pictures 
of  disordered  dreams.  Phantoms  rose  elusively  out  of  the  mists 
of  earth,  like  children  of  the  sun  and  the  river  or  like  freaks  of 
air  and  cloud. 

Wonder,  amazement,  admiration,  but  faintly  portray  my 
mental  condition.  The  magnificence  of  what  met  my  gaze  in  this 
dream  far  surpassed  anything  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  and 
brought  to  my  mind  the  scenes  of  the  Arabian  Nights  forgotten 
since  my  boyhood  until  now.  My  very  senses  were  irresistibly 
taken  captive,  and  I  seemed  to  have  wholly  severed  my  connec- 
tion with  the  world  of  today,  and  to  have  slipped  back  several 
centuries  into  the  times  of  genii,  fairies,  and  fountains — into  the 
very  heart  of  Persia  or  Arabia. 

Not  an  inharmonious  detail  marred  the  symmetry  of  the 
whole.  Beneath,  my  feet  sank  almost  ankle  deep  into  a  velvety 
carpet — a  sea  of  subdued  colors.  Looked  at  closely  I  found  that 
the  design  was  that  of  a  garden :  beds  of  luxurious  flowers,  stars 
and  crescents,  squares  and  diamond-shaped  plots  made  up  of 
thousands  of  rare  exotics  and  richly  colored  leaves.  Here,  a 
brook  edged  with  damp  verdure,  from  beneath  which  peeped  coy 
violets  and  tiny  blue-bells;  there,  a  serpentine  graveled  walk  that 
wound  in  and  out  amongst  exquisite  plants  and  everywhere  a 
thousand  shrubs  in  bloom  or  bud.    Above,  a  magnificent  chan- 


58 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


delier  consisting  of  six  dragons  of  beaten  gold  from  whose  eyes 
and  throats  sprang  flames,  the  light  from  which  striking  against 
a  series  of  curiously  set  prisms  fell  shattered  and  scintillating 
into  a  thousand  glancing  beams  that  illuminated  every  corner  of 
the  room.  The  rows  of  prisms  being  of  clear  and  variously  col- 
ored glass  and  the  dragons  slowly  revolving,  a  weird  and  ever- 
changing  hue  was  given  to  every  aspect  in  the  room. 

All  about  the  sides  of  the  spacious  apartment,  upon  the  floor, 
were  mattresses  covered  with  vari-colored  cloth  and  edged  with 
heavy  golden  fringe.  Upon  them  were  carelessly  strewn  rugs 
and  mats  of  Persian  and  Turkish  handicraft  and  soft  pillows  in 
heaps.  Above  the  level  of  those  divans  ran  all  about  the  room  a 
series  of  huge  mirrors  framed  with  gilded  serpents  intercoiled, 
effectually  shutting  off  the  windows.  The  effect  was  magnifi- 
cent. There  seemed  to  be  twenty  rooms  instead  of  one,  and 
everywhere  could  be  seen  the  flame-tongued  and  fiery-eyed 
dragons  slowly  revolving,  giving  to  all  the  appearance  of  a  mag- 
nificent kaleidoscope  in  which  the  harmonious  colors  were  ever 
blending  and  constantly  presenting  new  combinations. 

I  seemed  lost  in  lazy  reverie  and  perfect  comfort. 

Then  there  came  the  soft,  undulating  strains  of  music.  They 
were  just  perceptible  above  the  silvery  notes  of  a  crystal  foun- 
tain in  the  center  of  the  room,  the  falling  spray  from  which 
splashed  and  tinkled  musically  as  it  fell  from  serpents'  mouths 
into  a  series  of  the  very  thinnest  huge  pink  shells  held  aloft  by 
timid  hares.  The  music  seemed  to  creep  up  thru  the  heavy 
carpet,  to  ooze  from  the  wall,  to  flurry,  like  snow-flakes  from 
the  ceiling,  rising  and  falling  in  measured  cadences  unlike  any 
music  I  had  ever  heard.  It  seemed  to  steal,  now  softly,  now 
merrily,  on  tip-toe,  into  the  room  to  see  whether  we  were  awake 
or  asleep,  to  brush  away  a  tear,  if  tear  there  was,  or  gambol 
airily  and  merrily,  if  such  was  my  humor  and  then  as  softly, 
sometimes  sadly,  to  steal  out  again  and  lose  itself  in  the  distance. 
It  was  just  such  music  as  a  boatful  of  fairies  sailing  about  in  the 
clear  water  of  the  fountain  might  have  made,  or  that  with  which 
an  angel  mother  would  sing  its  angel  babe  to  sleep.  It  seemed 
to  enter  every  fibre  of  the  body  and  satisfy  a  music  hunger  that 
had  never  before  been  satisfied. 

The  revolving  dragons  went  swifter  and  more  swiftly,  until 
the  flaming  tongues  and  eyes  were  merged  into  a  huge  ball  of 
flame,  that,  suddenly  detaching  itself  with  a  sharp  sound  from 
its  pivot,  went  whirling  and  streaming  off  into  the  air  until  lost 
to  sight  in  the  skies.  Then  a  sudden  silence,  during  which  I 
heard  the  huge  waves  of  an  angry  sea  breaking  with  fierce 
monotony  in  my  head.    Then  I  heard  the  fountain ;  the  musical 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


50 


tinkle  of  the  spray  as  it  struck  upon  the  glass  grew  louder  and 
louder  and  the  notes  longer  and  longer,  until  they  merged 
into  one  clear  musical  bugle  note  that  woke  the  echoes  of  a 
spring  morning  and  broke  sharp  and  clear  over  hill  and  valley, 
meadow-land  and  marsh,  hill-top  and  forest.  A  gayly  capar- 
isoned horseman,  bugle  in  hand,  suddenly  appeared  above  a  hill 
crest.  Closely  following,  a  straggling  group  of  horsemen  riding 
fiercely.  Before  them  a  pack  of  hounds  came  dashing  down  the 
hillside,  baying  deeply.  I,  the  fox,  was  running  with  the  speed 
of  desperation,  straining  every  nerve  to  distance  or  elude  them. 
Thus  for  miles  and  miles  I  ran  on  until  at  last  almost  dead  from 
fright  and  fatigue,  I  fell  panting  in  the  forest.  A  moment  more 
and  the  cruel  hounds  would  have  had  me,  when  suddenly  a  little 
field-mouse  appeared,  caught  me  by  the  paw  and  dragged  me 
thru  the  narrow  entrance  to  her  nest.  My  body  lengthened  and 
narrowed  until  I  found  myself  a  serpent,  and  in  me  rose  the 
desire  to  devour  my  little  preserver,  when,  as  I  was  about  to 
strike  her  with  my  fangs,  she  changed  into  a  beautiful  little 
fairy,  tapped  my  ugly  black  flat  head  with  her  wand  and  as  my 
fangs  fell  to  earth,  I  resumed  my  human  shape.  With  the  part- 
ing words,  1 1  Never  seek  to  injure  those  who  endeavor  to  serve 
you,"  she  disappeared. 

Looking  about,  I  found  myself  in  a  huge  cave,  dark  and 
noisome.  Serpents  hissed  and  glared  at  me  from  every  side,  and 
huge  lizards  and  ugly  shapes  scrambled  over  the  wet  floor.  In 
the  far  corner  of  the  cave  I  saw  piles  of  precious  stones  of 
wondrous  value,  that  glanced  and  sparkled  in  the  dim  light. 
Despite  the  horrid  shapes  about  me,  I  resolved  to  secure  some  at 
least  of  these  precious  gems.  I  began  to  walk  toward  them,  but 
found  that  I  could  get  no  nearer — just  as  fast  as  I  advanced,  so 
fast  did  they  seem  to  recede.  At  last,  after  what  seemed  a  year's 
weary  journey,  I  suddenly  found  myself  beside  them,  and,  fall- 
ing on  my  knees,  began  to  fill  my  pockets,  bosom  and  even  my 
hat.  Then  I  tried  to  rise,  but  could  not ;  the  jewels  weighed  me 
down.  Mortified  and  disappointed,  I  replaced  them  all  but 
three,  weeping  bitterly.  As  I  rose  to  my  feet,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  me  that  this  was  in  no  way  real — only  a  morphine 
dream.  And  laughing,  I  said:  "You  fool,  this  is  all  nonsense; 
these  are  not  jewels ;  they  only  exist  in  your  imagination. ' '  My 
real  self  arguing  with  my  morphine  self  which  I  could  see,  tired, 
ragged  and  weeping,  set  me  to  laughing  still  harder,  and  then  we 
laughed  together — my  two  selves.  Suddenly  my  real  self  faded 
away  and  a  cloud  of  sadness  and  misery  settled  upon  me,  and  I 


60 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


wept  again,  throwing  myself  hysterically  upon  the  damp  floor 
of  the  cave. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  voice  addressing  me  by  name,  and  looking 
up,  I  saw  an  old  man  with  an  enormous  nose  bending  over  me. 
His  nose  seemed  almost  as  large  as  his  whole  body.  "Why  do 
you  weep,  my  son?"  he  said.  "Are  you  sad  because  you  cannot 
have  all  these  riches?  Don't  then,  for  some  day  you  will  learn 
that  whoso  hath  more  wealth  than  is  needed  to  minister  to  his 
wants,  must  suffer  for  it.  Every  farthing  above  a  certain  rea- 
sonable sum  will  surely  bring  some  worry,  care,  anxiety  or 
trouble.  Three  diamonds  are  your  share ;  be  content  with  them. 
But,  dear  me,  here  I  am  neglecting  my  work.  Here  it  is  March 
and  I'm  not  half  thru  yet." 

"Pray,  what  is  your  work,  venerbale  patriarch?"  I  asked, 
- '  and  why  has  the  Lord  given  you  such  a  huge  proboscis  ? ' ' 

"Ah,  I  see  that  you  don't  know  me,"  he  replied.  "I  am  the 
chemist  of  the  earth 's  bowels  and  it  is  my  duty  to  prepare  all  the 
sweet  and  delicate  odors  that  the  flowers  have.  I  am  busy  all 
winter  making  them  and  early  in  the  spring  my  nymphs  and 
apprentices  deliver  them  to  the  Queen  of  the  Flowers,  who,  in 
turn,  gives  them  to  her  subjects.  My  nose  is  a  little  large  because 
I  have  to  do  so  much  smelling.   Come  and  see  my  laboratory. ' ' 

His  nose  a  little  large !  I  laughed  until  I  almost  cried  at  this, 
while  following  him. 

He  opened  a  door,  and  entering,  my  nostrils  met  the  oddest 
medley  of  odors  I  had  ever  smelled.  Everywhere  workmen  with 
huge  noses  were  busy  mixing,  filtering,  distilling  and  the  like. 

' 1  Here, ' '  said  the  old  man,  "  is  a  batch  of  odors  that  has  been 
spoiled.  Mistakes  are  frequent,  but  I  find  use  for  even  such  as 
that.  The  Queen  of  flowers  gives  it  to  disobedient  plants  or 
flowers.  You  mortals  call  it  assafoetida.  Come  in  here  and  see 
my  organ. ' '  And  he  led  me  the  way  into  a  large  rocky  room  at 
one  end  of  which  was  a  huge  organ  of  curious  construction. 
Mounting  to  the  seat,  he  arranged  the  stops  and  began  to  play. 

Not  a  sound  could  be  heard  but  a  succession  of  odors  swept 
past  me,  some  slowly,  some  rapidly.  I  understood  the  grand  idea 
in  a  moment.  Here  was  music  to  which  that  of  sound  was  coarse 
and  earthly.  Here  was  a  harmony,  a  symphony  of  odors.  Clear 
and  sharp,  intense  and  less  intense,  sweet,  less  sweet,  and  again 
still  sweeter;  heavy  and  light,  fast  and  slow,  deep  and  narcotic, 
the  odors,  all  in  perfect  harmony,  rose  and  fell,  and  swept  by  me 
to  be  succeeded  by  others. 

Irresistibly  I  began  to  weep  and  fast  and  thick  fell  the  tears 
until  I  found  myself  a  little  stream  of  water,  that,  rising  in  the 
rocky  caverns  of  the  mountains,  dashed  down  its  side  into  the 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


61 


plain  below.  Fiercely  the  hot  sun  beat  down  upon  my  scanty 
waters  and  like  a  thin,  gray  mist  I  found  myself  rising  slowly 
into  the  skies,  no  longer  a  stream.  With  other  clouds  I  was 
swept  away  by  the  strong  and  rapid  wind  far  across  the  Atlantic, 
over  the  burning  sand  wastes  of  Africa,  dipping  toward  the 
Arabian  Sea  and  suddently  falling  in  huge  raindrops  into  the 
very  heart  of  India,  blossoming  with  poppies.  As  the  ground 
greedily  sucked  up  the  refreshing  drops,  I  again  resumed  my 
form. 

All  at  once  the  earth  was  rent  apart  and  falling  upon  the 
edge  of  a  deep  cavern,  I  saw  below  me  a  molten,  hissing  sea  of 
fire,  above  which  a  dense  vapor  hung.  Issuing  from  this  mist  a 
thousand  anguished  faces  rose  toward  me  on  scorched  and  broken 
wings,  shrieking  and  moaning  as  they  came. 

It  was  Hell. 

"Who  in  heaven's  name,  are  these  poor  things?" 

1 '  These,  said  a  voice  at  my  side,  are  the  spirits,  still  incarnate, 
of  individuals,  who  during  life,  sought  happiness  in  the  various 
narcotics.  Here,  after  death,  far  beneath,  they  live  a  life  of  tor- 
ture most  exquisite,  for  it  is  their  fate,  ever  suffering  for  want 
of  moisture  to  be  obliged  to  yield,  day  by  day,  their  lifeblood  to 
form  the  juice  of  the  poppy  and  the  resin  of  hemp,  in  order  that 
their  dreams,  joys,  hopes,  pleasures,  pains  and  anguish  of  past 
and  present  may  again  be  tasted  by  mortals." 

As  he  said  this,  I  turned  to  see  who  he  was,  but  he  had  dis- 
appeared. Then  I  heard  a  fierce  clamor,  felt  the  scrawny  arms 
of  these  foul  spirits  wound  about  my  neck,  in  my  hair,  on  my 
limbs  pulling  me  over  into  the  horrible  chasm,  into  the  heart  of 
hell,  crying  shrilly:  "Come,  thou  art  one  of  us.  Thou  art  a 
morphine  fiend;  fall  into  the  pit." 

I  struggled  fiercely,  shrieked  out  in  my  agony  and  in  another 
instant  all  was  dark,  and  shaking  off  the  golden  slumber  of 
repose,  I  awoke  as  if  I  had  slept  on  a  perfumed  couch,  and  to 
find  that  it  was  daylight — high  noon — and  that  I  was  lying  upon 
the  leather  bed  of  a  place  of  penitence,  while  all  about  me  rang 
the  voices  of  nurses  and  thru  the  windows  of  wire  netting 
streamed  the  crimson  rays  of  the  burnished  sun. 

In  fact,  on  awaking  from  opium  dreams,  I  was  struck  either 
with  amazement  or  convulsed  with  laughter;  and  in  this  par- 
ticular instance,  I  came  back  from  hell  with  a  smile  on  my  face. 

I  had  another  vision  of  a  large  and  populous  city  in  broad 
day.  There  were  edifices  of  huge  proportions,  with  hyacinth 
and  porphyry  walls  and  of  rococo  design.  There  were  streets, 
alleys,  cul-de-sacs,  squares,  triangles,  parks,  terraces,  esplanades, 


62 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


plazas,  monuments  and  fountains.  It  was  a  tableau  vivant. 
Autos  moved  in  a  swirl  of  locomotion  and  aeroplanes  plowed  the 
ether.  The  skyscrapers  were  miraculously  tall.  Besides,  there 
were  subways  and  elevated  trains.  The  city  was  arteried  by 
smooth,  white  paved  roads.  I  seemed  reclining  on  a  bank  of 
velvet-edged  clouds  and  observed  this  composite  of  all  the  cities 
that  I  had  visited  in  the  world,  for  in  addition  to  our  native 
American  cities,  temples  to  Apollo  and  shrines  to  Venus  dotted 
the  ways,  forums,  market  places  and  the  like  in  bewildering  con- 
fusion. I  have  an  Ulyssean  experience  of  cities  of  the  world. 
The  dream  scenery  shifted  from  one  film  to  another  in  rapid 
fire  style,  now  opulent  in  the  display  of  commercial  magnifi- 
cence, now  rich  in  the  splendor  of  beautiful  drives  along  groves 
with  feathery  palms,  Greek  temples  and  white  statues  of  the 
gods ;  along  avenues  of  mellifluous  arbors,  thru  parterres  redolent 
with  the  ambrosial  fragrance  of  native  flora  and  exotic  plants, 
past  musical  fountains  active  in  display  of  ascending  streams 
and  descending  drops  of  water.  That  magnificent  refulgence 
came  down  from  above,  a  glowing  cascade  of  light.  It  scintillated 
like  a  beautiful  gauze  and  leaped  in  fierce  playfulness  spinning 
its  electric  gossamers  in  that  vacuum  air  like  some  enchanted 
tissue.  It  trickled  in  ambient,  sparkling  cascades ;  it  overflowed 
the  bosom  of  the  fountains  in  tender  sheets  of  blue  and  mauve 
and  then  sank  as  silent,  as  ghostly,  as  wonderful  as  it  had  come. 
All  this  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant,  but  an  instant  of  such 
concentrated  brightness  and  glowing  visibility  that  I  saw  every 
detail  of  that  beautiful  thing — fountains  played  into  basins  of 
rosy  marble. 

Cloud-capped  towers,  solemn  temples,  sumptuous  and  magni- 
ficent marble  palaces,  enchanted  places  of  ecstasy,  sculptured 
brown-stone  facades,  colonnaded,  statued,  pierced  by  mighty 
doorways  and  lofty  windows,  passed  in  grave  procession.  There 
was  also  the  splendor  of  marble  and  costly  stone,  porphyry,  mala- 
chite, alabaster.  All  presented  a  triumph  of  architectural  ex- 
cellence and  endowment.  It  was  surely  frozen  music.  I  wished 
that  the  whole  looked  less  solemn,  less  like  a  pauper's  funeral. 

I  could  have  spoken,  but  would  not  for  fear  of  breaking  the 
charm,  and  I  awoke  to  find  none  of  the  visionary  character  about 
me  except,  perhaps,  a  shaft  of  early  morning  light  streaming 
thru  the  lattice,  could  be  called  a  reflex  of  the  mystic  glory  which 
had  surrounded  me  in  sleep.  I  looked  about  me  with  an  utter 
depression  of  soul,  the  after  dream  of  the  reveller  upon  opium, 
the  bitter  lapse  into  every  day  life,  the  hideous  dropping  of  the 
veil. 

Another  vision  presented  the  residential  part  of  a  quaint  old 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


63 


village,  the  humble  cottages  of  which  were  one  and  one  and  one- 
half  stories  in  height  and  constructed  of  lumber.  The  window 
panes  were  of  the  old-fashioned  sort  and  the  uniformity  of  archi- 
tectural design  sustained  the  suspicion  of  its  severe  quaintness 
and  mediaeval  aspect.  The  season  was  the  vernal  one,  and  all 
nature  was  exhuberant  in  natural  growth  and  there  seemed  a 
rich  abundance  of  vegetation.  The  streets  were  strewn  with 
pollen  and  the  air  oppressed  with  the  perfume  of  bursting  buds. 
The  whole  prospect  savored  of  home-keeping  and  rusticity,  and 
there  was  suggested  the  freedom  and  carelessness  of  the  life  of 
primitive  times. 

It  was  early  morning  and  few  of  the  inhabitants  were  about. 
In  a  garden  in  front  of  one  of  these  dwellings  I  observed  ' '  an  old 
sweetheart  of  mine"  ministering  to  a  flower  bed;  at  another 
primitive  home  an  old  granny  moving  in  and  out  on  some 
domestic  license ;  from  the  chimneys  here  and  there,  smoke  curled 
thru  the  ethereal  stillness;  bright  tin,  newly  scoured  brass  and 
crockeryware  were  tidily  hung  up  on  rear  porches ;  on  the  portico 
of  one  of  these  rude  dwellings  a  huge  Maltese  cat  purred ;  a  hen 
with  her  brood  scratched  and  clucked  in  another  yard ;  the  hum 
of  bees  could  be  distinguished  and  ever  and  anon  a  straggler 
appeared,  lazily  droning  his  way  along  the  petal-strewn  flags. 
Everything  was  prosy  and  quiet,  and  in  despairing  contrast  with 
the  scenes  of  activity  and  aspects  of  modernity  suggested  by  the 
preceding  vision.  The  entire  scene  bore  the  impress  of  tedious 
monotony.  It  was  humdrum  and  bucolic  and  looked  like  an 
Elysium  of  gentle  folk  befitting  a  Quaker  settlement,  in  all  their 
characteristic  simplicity. 

The  milkman  was  now  proceeding  on  his  matutinal  rounds 
with  jaded  horse  and  antediluvian  rig.  His  movements  were 
slow  and  measured,  and,  as  he  performed  the  work  of  going  from 
cottage  to  cottage,  his  nag  was  slower  than  a  snail  and  expended 
more  energy  in  trying  to  dislodge  gnats  assembled  about  its  head 
and  withers,  than  in  exertions  in  pulling  the  milk  cans. 

I  recall  that  my  contemplation  of  this  sight  was  rudely  dis- 
turbed by  some  pragmatic  boob  arousing  me  for  dejeuner  a  la 
fourchette.  So  annoyed  was  I,  that  I  actually  indulged  in  epi- 
thets of  opprobrium  hurled  at  his  retreating  footsteps.  When  he 
had  faded  away,  I  again  closed  my  eyes  and  gazed  upon  the 
picture,  and  so  absorbed  was  I  in  it,  that  it  was  an  effort  on  my 
part  to  break  away  from  the  home-keeping  character  painted 
thereon.  Altho'  gentle  day,  before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus 
dappled  round  about  the  drowsy  East  with  spots  of  gray,  and 
altho '  I  was  conscious  of  my  locale  and  notwithstanding  that  my 
eyes  were  closed,  yet  I  saw  these  things  just  as  clearly  as  I  had 


64 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ever  before  seen  anything  with  my  wide  open  eyes ;  and  I  heard 
the  music,  heavenly  strains  of  Beethoven's  Kreutzer  Sonata, 
music,  of  all  flowers  the  most  intellectual,  that  glorious  painting 
to  the  ear,  as  sensibly  as  at  any  time  when  thoroly  awake  to  the 
environments  of  life,  and  it  came  to  my  ears  like  the  sweet  South 
that  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets.  I  also  inhaled  the  strange 
and  subtle  odors  of  the  man  with  the  long  nose.  I  must  have 
been  deep  in  the  dreams  between  sleep  and  waking,  which  give 
to  realities  a  fantastic  appearance.  My  eyes  suddenly  opened, 
yet  my  dream  appeared  only  to  be  realized  by  my  waking.  When 
I  had  recovered  my  full  senses  all  was  so  much  changed  round 
me  that  I  could  scarcely  be  persuaded  that  either  the  past  or  the 
present  was  not  a  dream.  I  had  no  consciousness  of  any  interval 
between  them  more  than  that  having  closed  my  eyes  at  one 
instant,  to  open  them  at  the  next. 

There  was  nothing  phantasmal  about  these  visions.  The 
scenes  stimulated  the  capacities  of  enjoyment.  The  characters 
were  real. 

They  eclipsed  the  vaunted  visions  of  Swedenborg. 
My  judgment  is  oracular  upon  this :  that  the  lapsing  into  pro- 
found reveries  while  in  the  vassalage  of  opium  is  the  coronet  of' 
what  opium  can  do  for  human  nature ;  and  I  say  that  the  visions 
that  come  to  one  in  the  wonderland  of  dreams  reach  the  zenith 
of  visual  concentration.  One  may  be  bewildered  in  the  brilliancy 
of  one's  own  imagination  and  fallen  in  the  flames  of  his  own 
youth,  but  I  contend  that  one  is  bewildered  in  the  brilliancy  of 
these  visions  to  the  very  madness  of  ecstasy. 

Verily  there  is  magic  in  the  web  of  them ! 

The  only  sane  hypothesis  upon  which  I  may  predicate  these 
visions  is  a  functional  derangement  of  the  neural  economy  under 
the  dominion  of  the  drug,  which  produces  a  temporary  mental 
unbalance,  crouching  madness  in  a  sick  brain.  It  is  one  of  those 
spirits  of  a  wayward  fancy,  which  tantalizes  the  bed  of  the  sick, 
deformed  and  unbalanced  mind. 


* 


CHAPTER  VII 


UNDER  THE  SPELL  OF  HYOSCEINE 


"Methought  I  saw    *    *  * 
*    *  * 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

— King  Richard  III. 

The  dreams  that  come  and  the  visions  that  proceed  from  the 
sleep  producing  virtues  of  opium  are  the  most  angelic,  elevating, 
uplifting.  This  is  true  while  one  is  wholly  drugged  with  the 
poison,  but  in  the  convalescent  stage  they  are  the  most 
tormenting. 

For  gruesome  shapes  and  for  ghastly  situations,  hyosceine 
has  opium  stopped  four  ways  from  the  Jack.  There  are  fearful 
things  seen  in  the  crystal  of  a  dream.  I  underwent  the  hyosceine 
treatment  once  for  the  elimination  of  the  evils  following  in  the 
wake  of  a  "  shotgun  prescription " ;  at  another  time  while  in  the 
throes  of  the  D.  T.  's. 

In  the  former  instance  the  drug  was  suddenly  withdrawn. 

Hyosceine  is  precipitated  from  the  dried  leaves  and  flower- 
ing tops  of  hyoscyamus  niger,  cultivated  from  biennial  plants 
commonly  called  henbane  leaves.  All  parts  of  the  plant  are 
highly  narcotic.  It  is  called  stinking  nightshade,  from  the  fetid 
odor  of  the  plant.  It  is  an  hypnotic,  an  analgesic,  an  antispas- 
modic, a  sedative,  a  mydriatic. 

It  is  a  very  common  thing  for  the  imagination  to  paint  for 
the  senses  both  in  the  visible  and  invisible  world. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  charged  with 
crime  most  impious  and  revolting — I  was  the  murderer  of  an 
innocent  child.  The  hall  of  justice  was  a  large  amphitheatre  and 
it  was  night  time.  The  place  was  dimly  lighted  by  sombre  fila- 
ments which  flickered  and  irradiated  their  rays  upon  the  heads 
of  officials  and  lawyers  poring  over  heaps  of  papers.   The  judge 


66 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


had  an  immobile  and  sinister  looking  face.  He  was  the  sole 
arbiter  of  law  and  fact.  There  were  some  heroic  efforts  ad- 
vanced for  me,  but  these  were  but  perfunctory  and  ineffectual, 
for  each  time  that  anything  was  projected  in  my  behalf,  the  body 
of  the  dead  child  was  held  up  to  the  court.  From  each  of  the 
corners  of  the  court  room  a  gunman  was  stationed,  his  "Old 
Betsy"  trained  upon  me.  On  the  main  floor  revengeful  villains 
were  preparing  a  voltage  of  electricity  to  introduce  into  my  sys- 
tem, and  in  the  rear  thereof  I  heard  distinctly  more  of  my  ac- 
cursed accusers  distilling  molten  lead  with  which  to  singe  my 
stomach.  A  trained  nurse  stood  beside  me  and  regarded  me  with 
the  February  goggle.  In  an  instant  I  found  myself  groping 
between  two  hot  plates  of  steel  from  which  I  violently  wriggled 
to  escape,  and  in  so  trying,  I  shook  off  the  dreamy  fancies.  I 
looked  about  the  sick  room  fully  awake,  but  unduobtedly  semi- 
conscious, and  I  could  not  banish  the  hideous  thought  that  I 
must  appear  before  another  court,  such  terrible  impression  did 
this  dream  make. 

The  judge  exercising  jurisdiction  in  this  tribunal  was  domi- 
ciled in  a  room  as  a  patient  in  the  hospital,  and  so  was  the  mur- 
dered child;  and  both  of  these  I  had  seen  during  waking  hours 
thru  the  open  door.  These  latter  facts  demonstrate  to  me  beyond 
the  power  of  quibble,  that  any  object  which  has  been  intimately 
associated  with  any  supreme  paroxysm  of  human  action,  or 
human  emotion,  will  retain  a  certain  atmosphere  or  association 
which  is  capable  of  communicating  to  a  sensitive  mind,  that  is, 
the  mind  of  a  psychic  subject  with  nerves  which  respond  readily 
to  any  impression,  regardless  of  drug  inoculation. 

Let  me  draw  the  curtain  and  show  another  picture  which 
came  to  me  in  my  dreams.  It  stands  out  now  in  my  memory 
more  clearly  than  anything  which  I  have  seen  with  my  waking 
eyes.  The  dream  scenery  in  this  instance  presented  another 
court  room  scene,  in  which  I  was  one  of  the  idle  curious.  It  was 
the  morning  line-up  before  the  municipal  burgess  and  the  charges 
comprised  a  variety  of  peccadilloes,  all  categoried  under  the  gen- 
eral title  of  grist  from  the  devil's  mill.  Final  judgments  were 
entered  upon  pleas  of  guilty,  and  the  court,  exercising  ultra  vires 
powers,  ordered  the  culprits,  six  in  number,  consigned  to  a  sub- 
terrene  space  just  large  enough  to  admit  them  and  so  circum- 
scribed that  when  the  trap  was  closed  down  upon  them,  they  had 
barely  room  enough  to  contain  themselves  on  all  fours.  Prior  to 
their  enforced  entombment  here,  which  was  fully  consummated 
by  the  closing  of  the  trap  door,  thus  rendering  the  space  as  dark 
as  the  river  of  death,  each  was  presented  with  a  keen-bladed  knife 
glittering  like  chalcedony,  and  instructed  to  slash  one  another 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


61 


until  the  further  order  of  the  court.  Pending  the  result  of  the 
bloody  encounter  below,  the  court  resolved  itself  into  a  sort  of  an 
executive  session  breathlessly  awaiting  the  result.  The  silence  of 
the  court  was  as  the  cloisters  of  sempiternal  sepulture.  Not  a  fly 
buzzed  and  not  a  sigh  escaped  to  derange  the  prevailing  taci- 
turnity. The  din  of  battle  was  like  the  murmur  of  a  pleasant 
brook  before  that  expectant  hush.  I  was  held  by  the  fascination 
of  horror,  and  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  the  strange  spectacle. 

The  court  commanded  the  bailiff  to  open  the  trap  door. 
Descending  to  this  recess,  he  flung  six  inert  and  mangled  bodies 
upon  the  court  room  floor,  dripping  with  blood.  Knives  were 
buried  in  the  cadavers,  evidentiary  of  the  desperate  conflict 
below,  and  the  dozen  eyes  of  the  stiffs  were  focused  in  a  vin- 
dictive and  vitreous  dazzle  upon  the  court.  A  pistol  shot  rang 
out,  and  His  Honor,  receiving  a  bullet  in  the  right  temple,  court 
was  automatically  adjourned  and  the  judge  was  instantly  ar- 
raigned before  the  bar  of  a  higher  tribunal. 

Gradually  my  senses  became  clearer,  and  I  awoke  from  Hell 
with  a  crazy  laugh. 

I  soon  lapsed  back  and  the  scene  changed  to  that  of  a  burning 
building  at  the  holy  hour,  from  which  I  was  in  the  act  of  escap- 
ing attired  in  a  robe  de  chambre.  I  was  on  the  top  story  of  a 
ten-story  struct  are  and  the  flames  had  advanced  to  such  a  degree 
that  escape  by  the  stairways  was  cut  off,  and  I  was  left  to  the 
alternative  of  executing  the  high  dive  below.  A  precipitate 
plunge  to  this  concrete  base  meant  instant  dissolution,  yet  it 
seemed  the  only  hope.  The  smoke  burst  in  huge  nebular  volumes 
from  windows  and  doors,  and  tongues  of  flame  leaped  into  the 
tranquil  sky,  in  volcanoes  of  spark  and  hissing  tongues.  I 
seemed  stifled  by  the  curling  smoke  and  my  head  seemed  to  be 
bursting  and  my  throat  and  lungs  were  consumed  by  internal 
fires.  My  hair  seemed  on  end.  I  writhed  and  struggled  and 
broke  thru  the  gossamer  web  of  this  dream  and  burst  with  a 
shriek  back  to  my  own  life  and  found  myself  shivering  with 
terror.  I  found  the  warm  clasp  of  a  hand,  and  was  greeted  by 
my  four  orphaned  children,  gathered  about  the  hospital  bed,  to 
the  leather  bosom  of  which  I  was  inextricably  strapped. 

So,  from  this  dream  of  unhapiness  and  despair,  I  forgot  its 
freaks  and  awoke  with  laughter.    Oh,  what  a  blessed  relief ! 

I  lapsed  back  to  dreamland,  and  the  next  instant  I  was  in  an 
airplane  and  passing  thru  a  storm  of  the  elements.  I  was  being 
blown  about  on  the  storms  of  every  region  of  the  universe.  My 
machine  was  cutting  the  ether  with  terrific  velocity.  I  per- 
ceived astral  bodies  of  all  shapes  dispersed  by  the  elemental 
wrath,  but  my  airplane  seemed  immune  from  contact,  as  I  noticed 


68 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


it  volplane  to  permit  the  safe  transit  of  revolving  orbs.  Like 
windswept  withered  leaves,  these  orbs  now  hurtled  to  the  zenith 
and  now  plunged  down  to  bottomless  gulfs.  I  found  certainly 
that  matter  was  in  a  perpetual  flux.  My  blimp  was  blown  with 
restless  violence  round  about  the  pendant  planets  and  in  the 
midst  of  all,  I  lived,  tossed  like  a  grain  of  sand  in  the  whirlwind. 
I  came  suddenly  out  of  this  storm  center  and  into  an  atmosphere 
so  pellucid,  that  the  naked  eye  could  discern  an  infinity  of  worlds 
and  space,  and  I  was  rapidly  advancing  to  one  of  these  whirling 
balls.  Our  landing  was  a  plunge  into  some  saline  depth  and  I 
recall  the  impact  as  we  dived  to  the  pelagic  immensity.  Along 
the  bottom  we  cruised,  passing  seaweed  dowered  with  a  phosphor- 
escent glow  and  I  perceived  many  shapes  of  oceanic  creatures. 
The  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea  was  strewn  with  sunken  wrecks 
and  sunless  treasures.  Virgin  gold  lay  there  in  huge  wedges,  but 
they  passed  by  me  like  misers  pass  beggars.  Fostered  by  the 
notion  of  original  discovery,  I  was  about  to  open  a  door  of  my 
aeroplane-submarine  that  would  conduct  me  to  them,  when  the 
rustling  of  a  curtain  shook  me  out  of  my  trance  and  brought  me 
from  an  infinity  of  worlds  back  to  the  psycopathic  chamber. 
Like  Caliban,  I  dreamed  that  the  clouds  opened  and  showered 
riches  down  upon  me,  and  when  I  waked,  I  tried  to  dream  again. 
Mechanically  I  arose  from  the  pillow  with  blinking  eyes,  stretch- 
ing my  languid  arms  wearily  and  gasping  like  a  man  who  had 
slept  a  hundred  years.  Awaking  thus,  with  the  cold  beads  of 
perspiration  upon  my  agitated  brow,  I  was  confronted  with  the 
rude  disillusionment  that  all  was  but  a  dream  produced  by  and 
thru  the  peremptory  withdrawal  of  the  dope  and  the  hypodermic 
introduction  of  hyosceine. 

What  a  cursed,  vexing  disillusionment!  What  a  blasted 
illusion ! 

On  the  sudden  withdrawal  of  the  drug  and  the  incipient 
dosage  of  hyosceine,  I  heard  the  mellow  voices  of  songbirds,  their 
lusty  throats  inflated,  I  believe,  in  a  melody  of  song.  The  pas- 
sionate nightingale,  forgetting  the  hills  of  Thrace,  the  thrush, 
the  mocking  bird,  the  cuckoo,  the  bobolink,  the  wood  nymph,  the 
pipit  lark,  the  vireo,  and  the  oriole  vied  with  one  another  in 
dainty  lays  and  dulcet  harmony.  There  was  haunting  sweetness 
and  rhythmic  melody  as  the  delicate  vibration  of  appealing  har- 
mony rose  and  fell,  and  their  seraphic  notes  thrilled  into  the  dry, 
unused  channels  of  my  hearing.  Then  on  top  of  all  this  en- 
trancing music  and  ravishing  melody,  came  another  and  dif- 
ferent ornithological  collection,  discoursing  the  most  discordant 
strains.  The  wren,  the  goose,  the  dunghill  variety  of  rooster,  the 
parrot,  the  cockatoo,  the  crow,  and  withal,  the  hoot  of  the  owl, 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL  69 


the  quack  of  the  duck,  the  cluck  of  the  barnyard  fowl  and  the 
squeak  of  the  cricket  on  the  hearth,  and  the  kokil,  the  bird  of 
spring,  could  be  heard  singing  its  song  in  the  boughs.  The  flut- 
tering of  wings  and  the  general  cockle-doodle-doo  squawking  ac- 
centuated the  general  din  and  the  hospital  where  I  was  domi- 
ciled, seemed  an  actual  aviary.  There  was  gripping  sadness  and 
inane  allurement  now  soaring  to  the  heights,  and  now  descending 
sharply  into  the  uttermost  depths  in  this  orchestral  symphony. 
The  whole  comprised  continuous  gushes  of  melody,  unexpected 
cadences,  interspersed  with  harsh  and  hissing  sounds,  leaps  that 
would  confuse  a  Philomel  or  throw  Stradivarius  into  a  swoon; 
then  soft  undulations  of  octaves  which  rose  and  fell  like  the 
bosom  of  a  young  singer.  Mirth  seemed  the  predominant  spirit 
of  these  lays,  commingled  in  one  magnificent  cacophony  of 
musical  discord — sweet  thunder. 

Under  the  power  of  hyosceine,  cockatrices  appeared  fixing 
upon  me  the  killing  glance.  Basilisks,  dragons  vomiting  blood, 
pythons,  lizards,  seps,  serpents  with  inflatable  crests,  hooded 
cobra  di  capellos,  anacondas,  boa  constrictors  and  other  venomous 
reptiles  appeared  before  me  and  mocked  me  with  sardonic  bitter- 
ness; chacmas,  geladas,  monkeys,  and  ourang-outangs  chattered 
at  me ;  purple  apes  derided  me  and  adders  with  cloven  tongues, 
hissed  me  into  madness. 

Dim  shapes  of  horror  and  anguish  haunted  my  dreams. 

T  was  in  gnomeland  among  the  abortive  creatures  and  abys- 
mal beasts  of  some  subterrene  kingdom,  where  things  aged  and 
evil  beckoned  me  to  their  region  of  the  shadows,  to  the  realms  of 
the  nethermost  hell. 

I  was  haunted  by  the  strangest  antique  shapes,  wild  natives 
of  the  brain,  appearing  in  strange  colors,  by  marvelous  creatures 
belonging  to  the  borderland  'twixt  life  and  death,  and  by  faces 
that  bore  an  infinite  variety  of  ugliness. 

Devils  came  and  thronged  about  me,  grinning  and  howling 
and  whisking  their  long  tails  in  diabolic  glee. 

Boundless  dreams  of  shadow  flitted  above  me,  blended  with 
all  the  distortions  of  nature  with  the  mask  of  shadow  over  their 
visages.  Thoughts  and  images  slumbered  within  me,  like  bees  in 
a  hive. 

A  current  of  disordered,  sensual  images  ran  like  a  mill  race 
in  my  fancy,  and  I  behead  an  undraped  Venus  in  the  real  modesty 
of  naked  chastity. 

I  was  embraced  by  voluptuous  maidens,  who  seemed  the  very 
incarnation  of  seraphs  and  cherubs,  nymphs  and  naiads,  but  who 


70 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


drcve  a  hundred  knives  into  my  body  and  left  me  dripping  in 
my  life's  blood. 

I  heard  the  simple  lays  of  singing  fishes  and  aquatic  mice. 
I  heard  the  whisperings  of  the  pines,  the  dirges  of  the  Borean 
winds,  the  discordant  cadences  of  horrible  Stymphalian  birds  of 
ill-omen,  some  like  the  voices  of  souls  escaped  from  Hell. 

I  heard  the  Syriac  language  spoken  in  midnight  meetings,  in 
which  tongue  uncanny  people  worship  the  devil. 

In  fact,  I  conversed  and  walked  with  the  devil  himself. 

I  beheld  a  head,  a  livid,  green  convulsive  face,  with  the  look 
of  one  of  the  damned,  and  in  his  hand  he  held  a  dagger  that 
emitted  tongues  of  flame. 

I  saw  phantom  lights,  huge  shadows,  black  spirits  in  hell.  I 
saw  shapes  in  the  density  of  impenetrable  shadow,  ill-omened, 
crawling  things — ghosts  on  the  banks  of  the  Styx.  I  was  shut  up 
in  a  foul  dungeon  in  utter  darkness,  enclosed  by  bare  stone  walls, 
where  scaly  and  slimy  snakes  caressed  me  and  wound  their 
vermicular  bodies  about  my  own,  in  frantic  convolutions  to 
crush  out  my  life. 

Round  my  bed  brownies,  elves  and  pygmies,  hixies,  undines 
and  loreleis  danced  in  fantastic  glee,  dressed  in  nine-pin  costume, 
while  overhead  hovered  beldams  and  hags  who  rode  broomsticks, 
and  an  unseen  orchestra  belched  forth  round  dance  music,  like 
some  scurvy  tune  at  a  funeral. 

I  was  carried  in  the  arms  of  a  female  gorilla  to  her  lair  in  the 
jungles,  and  there  subjected  to  a  series  of  the  most  revolting 
orgies  and  merry-andrew  ceremonies  that  could  well  be  conceived. 

At  times  my  head  was  held  as  in  a  vise,  and  I  was  absolutely 
incapable  of  extricating  it  by  the  most  rigorous  efforts  and  with 
each  such  effort,  the  vise  would  close  with  such  force  as  to  baffle 
all  resistance.  To  escape  was  impossible.  There  was  an  impres- 
sion of  powerlessness  upon  me,  for  whose  melancholy  I  can  find 
no  words.  My  feet  were  chainless,  but  never  fetter  clung  with 
such  a  retarding  weight  as  that  invisible  bond  by  which  I  was 
tethered.  Resistance  was  in  vain.  I  was  conscious  that  I  might 
as  well  have  struggled  against  the  tides,  or  thought  to  stop  the 
revolution  of  the  globe. 

I  was  buried  in  deep  snows,  in  thick-ribbed  ice,  in  shifting 
sands,  in  gulfs  of  mire.  At  times  the  firm  earth  gave  way  be- 
neath me,  and  I  dropped  into  blackness  and  there  was  a  roar  like 
the  sound  of  many  thunders,  and  a  shock  as  if  the  earth  were 
crashing  into  chaos,  and  my  mind  went  out  on  me  and  I  dreamed 
that  I  had  died. 

I  was  imprisoned  in  sweat  chambers  where  the  heat  was 
turned  on  to  the  limit  of  Eahrenheit,  and  the  more  I  wriggled 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


71 


for  freedom,  the  greater  was  the  flow  of  hot  vapor  therein.  It 
resembled  the  third  degree  in  police  investigations,  but  really 
reached  the  thirty-third  degree,  so  far  as  my  sensibilities  were 
concerned. 

Into  my  dull  brain  there  flashed  crazy  germs  of  still  crazier 
notions,  and  onto  the  retina  of  my  eyes  a  marvelous  reality  or 
strange  mirage  that  checked  my  pulse  and  fevered  my  blood. 

Distorted  faces,  dread  figures  and  crooked  shapes,  "mugs" 
wearing  sinister  aspects  haunted  me,  waking  or  sleeping,  like  the 
riddles  of  forgotten  goddesses  solved  after  long  centuries. 

In  the  shadows  of  the  room  a  vast,  shaggy  black  form  ap- 
peared, grim  and  broad  as  no  mortal  ever  saw  and  red  and  un- 
wavering in  the  uncertain  light,  seven  feet  high,  and  possessed 
of  two  gleaming  eyes  that  were  bent  upon  me  with  a  horrible 
fixity. 

In  the  twilight  corner  glimmered  the  green  glassy  eyes  of  an 
old  Thebeian  crocodile,  and  there  the  shining  ivory  jaws  of 
monstrous  fishes,  with  warty  hides  of  toads  and  shriveled  forms 
of  small  beasts,  dried  in  the  kiln  of  long-silent  ages  and  now 
black,  shrunken  and  ghastly.  I  could  see  the  fire  of  their  eyes 
and  hear  their  dismal  howls. 

The  bed  posts,  the  water  pitcher  and  sundry  objects  about  the 
room  assumed  amorphous  shapes,  now  the  head  of  a  negro  wench 
and  in  painful  succession,  a  loathsome  leper  with  hideous  sores, 
a  bloated  form,  an  anaemic  consumptive,  a  strangled  babe,  a 
death's  head,  a  gigantic  clown,  an  ugly  devil,  a  bandy-legged 
dwarf,  a  huge  spider,  a  bearded  ape,  a  hairy-chested  ourang- 
outang,  all  in  this  vast  mundane  bazar  of  human  follies  fashioned 
by  fairy  hands. 

The  slime  of  the  pit  seemed  to  utter  cries  and  voices,  the 
amorphous  dust  gesticulated  and  sinned,  that  what  was  dead  and 
had  no  shape  should  usurp  the  offices  of  life. 

The  pictures  on  the  walls  assumed  animation  and  the  person 
there  represented,  stepped  right  out  of  the  frame. 

I  saw  grim  shapes  flee  to  the  spectral  line  of  pygmies,  and 
this/ picture  would  automatically  reverse  itself. 

Tf  I  dared  to  glance  upward,  I  beheld  a  menacing  visage  dis- 
tending to  an  immeasurable  magnitude,  and  ready  to  pour  down 
wrath. 

Serpents  of  the  most  inimitable  lustre,  yet  of  the  most  deadly 
poison,  coiled  and  sprang  at  me  with  a  rapidity  that  mocked 
human  feet. 

I  had  visions  of  unspeakable  terror;  flights  thru  regions  of 


72 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


space  that  left  earth  and  the  sun  incalculable  millions  of  miles 
behind,  flights  ceaseless,  hopeless — still  hurrying  onward  with 
more  than  winged  speed  thru  infinite  worlds. 

I  beheld  a  serene  representation  of  the  Eternal  Father  change 
to  the  sneering  mask  of  a  Mephistopheles,  and  the  Virgin 
wrapped  in  a  golden  cloud  among  the  angels  change  to  a  beldam. 

A  sense  of  uneasiness  made  a  strong  inducement  to  these 
drifting  dreams. 

They  were  dissolving  views. 

I  heard  great  murmurs  and  saw  superhuman  outlines  melt 
away  as  they  appeared.  I  saw  the  Eumenides,  now  almost 
extinct,  with  the  throats  of  furies  shaped  to  unearthly  croakings. 
The  horrible  was  combined  with  the  fantastic. 

In  these  dreams  I  have  seen  spectres,  half  shadow  and  half 
light.  At  other  times  the  figure  was  neither  man  nor  woman; 
it  had  no  definite  form ;  it  was  a  shapeless  figure,  a  sort  of  vision 
in  which  the  real  and  fantastic  were  contrasted  like  light  and 
shade. 

The  extraordinary  faces  which  in  turn  presented  themselves 
acted  like  so  many  brands  thrown  upon  a  blazing  fire  and  from 
all  issued  like  vapor  from  a  furnace,  a  sharp,  shrill,  hissing  noise 
as  from  some  immense  serpent.  Thru  it  all,  I  was  seized  with  a 
sort  of  frantic  intoxication,  a  supernatural  kind  of  fascination. 

In  one  of  these  extraordinary  dreams,  I  dreamed  that  I  had 
been  buried  alive.  I  lay  in  the  sepulchre  but  with  the  full  vivid- 
ness of  life,  and  with  a  perfect  knowledge  that  there  it  was  my 
doom  to  lie  forever.  A  miraculous  foresight  gave  me  the  fearful 
privilege  of  looking  into  the  most  remote  futurity.  Ages  on  ages 
unfolded  themselves,  with  all  their  wonders  to  tantalize  me.  I 
saw  worlds  awake  from  chaos  and  return  to  it  in  flood  and  flame. 
I  saw  systems  swept  away  like  the  sand,  the  universe  withered 
with  years  and  rolled  up  like  the  parchment  scroll.  I  saw  new 
regions  of  space,  glowing  with  a  new  creation,  the  angelic  hier- 
archies rising  thru  new  energies,  new  triumphs,  new  orders  of 
existence,  developments  of  power  and  magnificence  of  sublime 
mercy  and  essential  glory,  too  high  for  the  conception  of  mortal 
faculties.  No  ray  of  light,  no  sound,  no  trace  of  external  being, 
no  sympathy  of  flesh  and  spirit  or  heaven  was  to  reach  me.  The 
four  narrow  walls,  the  winding  sheet,  the  worm,  were  my  world. 
I  seemed  to  lie  thus  for  periods  beyond  all  counting,  powerless  to 
move  a  limb,  the  sleepless,  conscious  vivid  victim  of  misery  un- 
speakable— the  bondsman  of  the  sepulchre. 

In  those  wanderings  I  experienced  not  even  the  slightest 
recollection  of  the  cause  which  had  so  sternly  shaken  my  brain ; 
wife,  children,  country  were  a  blank.   Imagination,  the  strangest 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  most  imperious  of  our  faculties,  whose  soaring  from  earth  to 
heaven  may  be  among  the  indications  of  power  beyond  the  grave, 
disdains  to  linger  on  the  realities  of  our  being.  It  delights  in  the 
commanding,  the  bold,  the  superb.  In  my  instance,  it  had  the 
wildness  of  desire,  but  who  has  ever  felt  its  workings  even  in  the 
dream  of  health  without  wonder  at  its  passion  for  the  richer  and 
more  highly  relieved  remembrances,  its  singular  skill  in  throwing 
together  the  loftier  portions  of  life  and  nature  to  the  total  dis- 
regard of  the  level ;  its  subtlety  in  its  seizure  of  the  circumstances 
of  pain,  its  fabrication  of  adventure  at  once  of  the  most  singular 
consecutiveness  and  the  wildest  originality,  and  all  characterized 
by  the  same  spontaneous  swiftness  of  change  and  illimitable  com- 
mand over  space  and  time,  a  power  of  instant  flight  from  con- 
tinent to  continent  and  from  world  to  world — the  transit  that 
would  actually  fill  up  years  and  ages  the  work  of  a  moment — 
the  actual  moment  expanding  into  years  and  ages. 

What  are  these  but  the  infant  attributes  of  the  disembodied 
spirits — the  imperfect  developments  of  a  state  of  being  to  which 
time  and  space  are  as  nothing — when  man  shaking  off  the  cover- 
ing of  the  grave  shall  be  clothed  with  the  might  of  angels — the 
splendid  denizen  of  Infinitude  and  Eternity ! 

The  fairies  lured  me  to  the  torments  of  hell,  where  I  bathed 
in  fiery  floods  and  mingled  with  the  damned  souls  there,  groan- 
ing, shrieking  and  crying  in  despair.  In  this  abyss  of  lost  souls, 
some  were  so  crushed  by  sorrow  that  no  hope  remained  even  of 
dying,  and  all  were  envious  of  any  other  fate.  It  was  truly  the 
City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

Fantasies  presenting  themselves  at  night,  extended  their  ter- 
rific influence  far  into  my  waking  hours.  My  nerves  became 
thoroly  unstrung,  and  I  became  a  prey  to  perpetual  horror. 

My  imagination  was  poisoned  by  the  spell  of  volcanic  oratory. 
The  locus  penitentiae  wherein  I  was  ensconsed  upon  a  leather 
bed,  bound  hand  and  foot  by  leather  cuffs,  was  peopled  with 
accusers  who  proclaimed  my  infamy  in  vitriolic  phillipics,  veno- 
mous diatribes  and  vituperative  pasquinades.  I  heard  hostile 
ejaculations  and  muttered  complaints.  In  the  indiscriminate 
lampoons,  I  detected  the  familiar  voices  of  local  enemies,  who 
spared  neither  billingsgate  nor  ribaldry  to  lend  semblance  to 
their  inflammatory  indictments. 

For  these  apochryphal  offenses,  God's  unforgetting  justice 
had  dealt  out  to  me  the  extreme  penalty,  and  I  awaited  electrocu- 
tion in  a  solitary  cell  under  the  eternally  vigilant  eye  of  the 
death  watch,  who  held  me  constantly  in  the  spotlight  of  an  elec- 
tric flash,  whether  I  writhed  in  paroxysms  of  mental  distemper 


74 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  physical  restlessness  npon  the  bare  pallet  or  marked  time 
within  this  cramped  crypt  on  its  bare  stone  flagging. 

I  was,  in  spite  of  myself,  under  the  influence  of  an  unac- 
countable hallucination,  an  absurd  delusion,  a  mystery  that  our 
pride  rejects  and  that  our  imperfect  science  vainly  tries  to  solve. 

Innumerable  images  of  gloom  and  a  crowd  of  sounds  op- 
pressed me  in  dreams,  and  I  was  persecuted  by  visions  as  hateful 
and  by  ghosts  as  hideous  as  ever  appeared  to  fright  the  human 
soul. 

Ages  on  ages  seemed  to  have  heavily  sunk  away  and  still  I 
stood  bound  by  the  same  manacle,  standing  on  the  same  spot, 
looking  at  the  same  objects.  To  this  I  would  have  preferred  the 
fiercest  extremes  of  suffering.  Of  all  passions  that  dwell  within 
the  heart  of  man,  the  passion  for  change  is  the  most  incapable  of 
being  extinguished  or  eluded. 

A  thousand  years  seemed  but  the  lingering  of  a  summer's 
day,  a  summer's  day  as  a  thousand  years. 

I  was  humbled  to  the  dust  by  the  many  ill  things  I  had  done 
represented  by  the  fanciful  offenses  conjured  up  in  the  minds  of 
my  accusers,  and  I  suddenly  became  conscious  of  hidden  sins.  I 
was  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  these  sins,  the  cancers  of  concealed 
disgraces,  which  arose  from  their  forgotten  corners  and  usurped 
my  attention  in  these  profound  and  vivid  dreams. 

Thru  it  all,  I  spied  a  black,  suspicious,  threatening  cloud 
hovering  round  about  me. 

A  thousand  vague  and  lachrymatory  fancies  took  possession 
of  my  soul  which  made  me  sick  of  the  false  world,  and  I  thought 
that  it  wTas  silliness  to  live,  when  to  live  is  torment.  I  thought 
that  the  stroke  of  death  would  be  as  the  lover's  pinch,  which 
hurts  but  is  desired,  and  that  if  the  grave  had  room  enough  for 
two,  let  me  be  buried  with  oblivion. 

There  was  profound  anxiety  and  general  hypochondriacism 
inoculated  in  me,  and,  like  Cato,  I  resolved  on  suicide,  the  most 
decided  of  atrocities,  and  yet  a  breaking  from  one's  prison,  a 
riddance  from  all  the  pain  and  injustice  of  the  world. 

Violent  must  be  the  storms  which  compel  a  soul  to  seek  for 
peace  from  the  little  phial  of  crystal-clear  hemlock,  or  the  savage 
mercy  of  the  quick  pistol  or  the  silent  knife,  or  to  find  surcease 
from  trouble  in  some  Lethean  stream,  or  to  plunge  over  a  preci- 
pice deep  enough  to  extinguish  every  appetite  and  ambition  in 
the  round  of  this  bustling  world ! 

A  chuckle  of  fate  rescued  me,  as  it  is  a  trait  in  the  perversity 
of  human  nature  to  reject  the  obvious  and  ready  for  the  far 
distant  and  equivocal.  Or,  possibly  it  was  the  devil 's  mercy  that 
saved  me.    It  is  as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  born,  and  we  have  a 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


prescription  to  die  when  death  is  our  physician.  I  believe  that 
the  ravages  of  mental  disease  affect  the  soul  of  man  in  the  same 
way  that  acute  physical  anguish  affects  the  body,  and  an  intelli- 
gent being  suffering  from  a  moral  malady  has  surely  a  right  to 
destroy  himself,  a  right  he  shares  with  the  sheep,  that,  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  " staggers,"  beats  its  head  against  a  tree. 

I  would  not  again  undergo  this  system  of  therapeutics  for  all 
the  wealth  of  Partus,  or  for  the  highest  priced  corner  lot  in 
Beulah  Land.  To  escape  it,  I  would  rather  at  once  be  interred 
within  the  womb  of  earth,  the  great  mother  of  eternal  sleep. 

All  of  these  things  seen  in  dreams  and  seen  with  the  waking 
eyes,  I  knew  had  no  origin  except  in  the  distemper  of  my  fancy, 
begotten  by  disorganized,  impinged  and  irritated  nerves.  And 
they  all  came  about  due  to  the  physical  condition  of  convales- 
cence— the  cleared  vision  that  sometimes  attends  convalescence. 
My  brain  had  received  an  overwhelming  blow.  Imagination  was 
my  tyrant,  and  every  occurrence  of  life,  every  aspect  of  hu- 
manity, every  variety  of  nature,  day  and  night,  sunshine  and 
storm,  made  a  portion  of  its  fearful  empire.  What  is  insanity 
but  a  more  vivid  and  terrible  dream?  It  has  the  dream-like 
tumult  of  events,  the  rapidity  of  transit,  the  quick  invention, 
the  utter  disregard  of  place  and  time.  The  difference  lies  in  its 
intensity.  The  madman  is  awake,  and  the  open  eye  administers 
a  horrid  reality  to  the  fantastic  vision.  The  vigor  of  the  senses 
gives  a  living  and  resistless  strength  to  the  vengeance  of  the 
fancy.  It  compels  together  the  fleeting  mists  of  the  mind,  and 
embodies  them  into  shapes  of  deadly  power. 

The  moon,  that  ancient  mistress  of  the  diseased  mind, 
strongly  exerted  her  spells  on  me.  Darkness  was  a  source  of 
terror ;  daylight  overwhelmed  me,  but  the  gentle  splendor  of  the 
crescent  had  a  dewy  and  refreshing  influence  on  my  faculties. 

My  nervous  system  was  worked  up  to  an  unnatural  state  of 
tension  and  produced  this  cerebral  status.  My  mind  was  sur- 
charged with  fear  and  dread — the  frantic  fear  of  the  vengeance 
of  real  and  fancied  enemies.  It  was  troubled  with  thick  coming 
fancies  that  denied  me  rest. 

And  for  nearly  three  decades  I  had  drank  Circean  cups  of 
Opium. 

The  enemies  of  the  body  we  can  physically  attack  and  oftimes 
physically  repel;  but  the  enemies  of  the  mind — the  frightful 
phantoms  of  a  disordered  imagination — these  no  medicines  can 
cure,  no  subtle  touch  disperse. 

Upon  this  foundation  I  erect  the  edifice  of  hypothesis,  the 


76 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


card  house  of  philosophers,  as  Cuvier  built  a  skeleton  from  a 
single  bone. 

I  believe  that  we  have  it  in  our  power  when  we  are  once  awake 
to  the  relation  between  the  conscious  and  the  sub-conscious  mind, 
and  it  in  turn  in  its  relations  to  the  various  involuntary  and  vital 
functions  of  the  body,  to  determine  to  a  great  extent  how  the 
body  shall  be  built  or  how  it  shall  be  rebuilt.  Mentally  ponder- 
ing over  a  thing  and  tracing  it  in  the  darkness,  will  operate  to 
subsequently  transfer  itself  to  dreams.  Mentally  to  live  in  any 
state  or  attribute  of  mind  is  to  take  that  state  or  condition  into 
the  subconscious.  The  subconscious  does  and  always  will  produce 
in  the  body  after  its  own  kind.  It  is  thru  this  law  that  we  ex- 
ternalize and  become  in  body  what  we  live  in  our  minds.  If  we 
have  predominating  visions  of  and  harbor  thoughts  of  old  age 
and  weakness,  this  state  with  all  its  attendant  circumstances  will 
become  externalized  in  our  bodies  far  more  quickly  than  if  we 
entertain  thoughts  and  visions  of  a  different  type.  The  recent 
researches  of  scientific  men,  endorsed  by  experiments  in  the 
Saltpetriere  in  Paris,  have  drawn  attention  to  the  intensely 
creative  power  of  suggestions  made  by  the  subliminal  mind  to 
the  sub-conscious  mind. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


OPIUM  AND  JOHN  BARLEYCORN 


"Oh,  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if  thou 
Hast  no  other  name  to  be  known  by,  let 
Us  call  thee  devil!    *    *    *    O,  God, 
That  men  should  put  an  enemy  in  their  mouths 
To  steal  away  their  brains.    That  we  should  with 
Joy,  pleasure,  revel  and  applause,  transform 
Ourselves  into  brutes!" 

— Othello. 

My  traffic  in  both  opium  and  rum  endured  for  nearly  three 
decades,  and  whether  my  conclusions  are  to  be  treated  as  either 
oracular  or  dogmatic,  I  leave  the  reader  to  judge. 

Reference  to  them  includes  them  in  the  generic  sense,  and 
particularly  when  reference  is  made  to  rum,  such  as  alcohol, 
potheen,  usquebae,  vino,  mescal,  ox-eye,  bambi-bambi,  sack, 
Tukela,  aguardiente,  Schnapps,  bueno,  pulque,  sake,  kefir, 
koumiss,  methigelum,  ''Jake,"  or  "Choc." 

Rum  confuses  the  mental  calibre  by  a  scattering  of  the  ideas 
stored  there,  while  with  opium  there  is  an  even  balance  that 
regulates  the  ideas  and  maintains  them  in  order;  rum  steals 
away  one's  natural  composure  and  self-control;  opium  fortifies 
them;  rum  upsets  the  senses,  opuim  inoculates  a  calmness,  a 
coolness,  an  evenness  of  temper.  Rum  for  an  ephemeral  period, 
is  conducive  to  an  elevation  of  the  capacity  to  think  and  argue ; 
opium  sustains  one  in  the  dialectical  arena  thruout.  An  inebriate 
becomes  absurd  in  his  talk,  awkward  in  his  action,  hyperbolic  in 
blowing  hot  and  cold  alternately,  and  these  attributes  finally 
entrap  him;  rum  provokes  desire,  but  takes  away  the  perform- 
ance. Under  the  aegis  of  opium,  there  is  a  settled  composure 
from  beginning  to  end;  under  the  influence  of  rum,  the  bar- 
barous, sensual,  unfeeling  part  of  man's  nature  crops  out;  in 
opium  the  finer  fiber  is  uppermost,  the  godlike  and  heavenly 
part  of  his  makeup.  In  fine,  one  is  evenly  balanced  morally, 
and  he  is  mentally  luminous  under  opium's  thrall. 

I  resurrect  from  the  tables  of  memory  instances  of  having 


78 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


swayed  juries  under  the  influence  of  a  moderate  quantum  of 
liquor:  but  the  instances  were  of  fleeting  moment.  Any  pro- 
longed elaboration  would  invariably  work  a  dissemination  of 
primarily  assembled  facts  seriatim,  and  a  consequent  complexity 
that  would  be  arduous  to  smooth  over  or  reconstruct.  Besides, 
the  personal  visage  of  an  inebriated  person  is  usually  offensive, 
and  he  is  liable  to  be  unstable  in  personal  movements.  His 
optics  become  filmy  and  clotted  in  a  yellow  liquor,  glazed  over 
with  the  fumes  of  intoxication  and  otherwise  inflamed  by  a 
turgid  and  grumous  state  of  the  blood  vessels,  and  his  face  suf- 
fused with  a  carmine  glow,  due  to  an  engorgement  of  the  vascu- 
lar tissues;  under  opium,  one  is  entirely  composed  so  far  as 
physical  energies  are  concerned ;  his  face  is  as  white  as  the  snow 
on  a  raven's  back  and  he  has  an  undimmed,  myotic  eye.  As  to 
rum,  destruction  lurks  within  the  poisonous  dose,  a  fatal  fever 
or  a  pimpled  nose ! 

While  alcoholic  stimulants  affect  the  medulla  oblongata  prin- 
cipally, opium  acts  chiefly  in  the  cerebellum  and  excites  reverie, 
dreamy  ideality,  optical  delusions  and  the  creative  powers  of  the 
imagination.  The  effects  of  opium  differ  from  those  of  alcoholic 
intoxication  by  not  deadening  the  moral  sensibilities  or  arousing 
the  animal  propensities^  Opium  smokers  are  dreamy  and  ab- 
stracted, not  quarrelsome  or  violent.  Those  who  use  ardent 
spirits  lose  their  moral  delicacy,  their  intellect  becomes  dull,  the 
reason  cloudy  and  the  judgment  is  overruled  by  appetite.  Verily, 
when  the  wine  is  in,  the  wit  is  out ! 

Some  old  fossil  long  ago  evaporated  to  the  realm  of  ghosts, 
announced  that  in  wine  there  is  truth.  I  do  not  believe  it,  and 
no  normal  mind  believes  it  either.  It  is  a  contention  without  any 
merit,  and  it  throttles  itself  by  its  own  idiocy. 

The  effect  of  rum  being  evanescent,  the  animal  energies  be- 
come depressed;  opium  exerts  a  sustaining  efficacy  even  to  the 
extent  of  supererogation. 

Superannuated  topers  pickled  in  the  very  brine  of  rum  for 
years,  invariably  resort  to  whiskey  after  a  protracted  debauch 
in  order  to  allay  the  uncomfortable  aftermath.  A  quarter  grain 
of  morphia  administered  to  such  a  person  not  habituated  to  the 
drug,  or  the  usual  quota  to  a  fiend  according  to  his  toleration,  is 
the  single  agency  that  will  dispel  effectually  the  "dark  brown 
taste ' '  and  perform  in  general  the  office  of  counter  agent  on  the 
morning  after  the  night  of  the  high  jinks  before. 

From  what  tradition  has  established,  the  eoliths  used  rum  in 
the  stone  age ;  it  was  extant  in  the  time  of  Moses,  and  wine  was  a 
mocker  during  the  time  of  the  Meek  and  Lowly  Nazarene,  and  all 
together  it  seems  to  have  been  in  favor  generally,  notwithstanding 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


7!> 


its  faults.  Wine  offers  a  mental  bath  to  those  of  respectability, 
and  alcohol  when  mixed  with  wine  adds  strength,  and  a  cup  of 
generous  white  wine  mulled  with  ginger  helps  genius — genius 
which  sheds  wisdom  like  perfume- — and  certainly  genius  and  all 
persons  of  extraordinary  profundity  generally  help  themselves 
to  wine.  "Good  wine  is  a  good  familiar  creature,  if  it  be  well 
used;  exclaim  no  more  against  it." 

From  the  foregoing,  it  will  be  seen  that  opium  is  not  intoxi- 
cating, in  the  sense  that  alcohol  is. 


CHAPTER  IX 


GRADUAL  REDUCTION  THERAPEUTICS 


"Throw  physic  to  the  dogs, 
I'll  none  of  it." 

— Macbeth. 

As  every  school  boy  knows,  the  mothers  of  the  sons  of  men 
do  the  weaning.  This  is  the  polestar  of  the  gradual  reduction 
treatment  in  chronic  addiction  to  the  glossy-berried  mandragore. 
It  is  a  system  suggested  by  reason  and  an  adopted  course  flowing 
from  knowledge  gained  in  the  field  of  experimental  medicine. 
Experience  comes  in  life  with  its  brief  to  conduct  the  lawsuit  of 
life.  Any  hasty,  sudden  withdrawal  is  a  memorial  of  barbaric 
times,  a  relic  of  the  rude  epochs.  As  time  is  the  devourer  of  all 
things,  and  as  it  takes  time  to  acquire  a  habit,  time  must  be  con- 
sidered a  factor  to  fight  the  morphine  dragon  in  its  relinquish- 
ment. It  requires  a  slow  pace  at  first  to  climb  steep  hills.  Ac- 
cording to  some  Arkansaw  savant,  "It  is  a  poor  rule  that  won't 
work  both  ways. ' '  And  yet,  I  become  inoculated  with  petrified 
wonder  when  I  contemplate  the  horde  of  unenlightened  units  of 
the  sawbones  science  in  topics  relating  to  narcotic  thereapeutics, 
and  knowing  as  I  do  their  helplessness,  I  had  rather  trust  the 
average  morphine  fiend  to  manipulate  a  curriculum  of  treatment 
than  the  average  doctor.  He  could  shuffle  the  cards  more  ac- 
ceptably. Of  course,  as  regards  the  medical  profession,  I  rail  not 
at  those  of  coldblooded  makeup,  those  who  are  psychologically 
esprit  borne,  shallow-pated,  mope-eyed,  hide-bound,  case-hard- 
ened. I  prefer  to  let  the  coldblooded  and  the  dub  ones  pass  on, 
and  may  my  vitriol  fall  upon  those  who  profess  to  know  some- 
thing of  the  vagaries  of  the  morphine  habit  and  who  absolutely 
know  nothing,  but  by  assuming  to  know,  bring  a  heritage  of  suf- 
fering to  a  long  procession  of  the  sons  of  men  by  treating  nar- 
comania by  the  farce  of  force. 

To  give  illustrations  of  their  utter  ignorance  would  unneces- 
sarily encumber  this  chapter,  so  I  will  be  content  with  saying 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


81 


that  some  of  them  had  the  surpassing  effrontery  to  advise  me  to 
throw  the  stuff  away,  destroy  the  "gun"  and  quit;  and  this 
bunk  was  offered  when  they  knew  that  I  had  had  over  twenty- 
five  years'  traffic  with  morphine,  on  and  off  the  morphine 
wagon.  If  such  advice  wouldn't  jar  the  trollies  of  a  monkey  and 
melt  the  rubber  tires  of  a  mermaid,  I'll  hang  up  the  fiddle  and 
the  bow  and  be  quite  willing  to  be  consigned  alive  to  the  tomb  in 
a  marble  coffin !  Were  I  possessed  of  the  power  of  transference 
of  one  personality  to  another,  like  a  Rhabdomantist,  I  would 
enjoy  the  instant  transference  of  the  morphine  habit  to  these  re- 
frigerated Charcots,  and  I  would  delight  in  observing  their  stunts 
of  wriggling  in  the  throes  of  a  sudden  withdrawal  of  the  drug 
until  they  bent  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee  in  suppliant  ap- 
peals for  a  "shot,"  a  "shock,"  a  "jolt,"  or  a  "pill,"  to  allay  the 
mental  ennui  and  the  physical  collapse.  When  they  had  cringed 
and  cowered  in  abject  servility,  I  could  look  on  in  supreme  indif- 
ference and  hypodermically  inject  into  them  a  slug  of  anhydrous 
hydrocyanic  acid. 

A  scientific  leech  hinted  that  I  say  NO  and  the  trick  would 
be  turned.  Another  culler  of  herbs  told  me  to  embrace  Christian 
Science  and  my  emancipation  would  be  sure  enough ;  and  still 
another  pill-box  said  that  if  I  would  place  an  old  bandana  hand- 
kerchief under  a  rock,  turn  a  cartwheel  over  it  three  times  in 
succession,  walk  backwards  one-hundred  and  one  times  and  then 
utter  the  Caughnawaga  whoop  kollijopebikizzoliffanteriko,  the 
charm  would  work. 

What  filtered  moonshine !  What  balderdash !  What  inef- 
fable twaddle.  What  jeu  de  theatre!  What  Hippocratean  path- 
ology !  What  hogwash  !  What  flapdoodle  !  What  bum  steers ! 
The  whole  is  a  mournful  commentary  on  latter-day  medication. 
It  is  enough  to  make  the  stars  fall.  It  is  enough  to  make  a  gar- 
goyle eat  a  porpoise.  It  would  give  a  graven  image  the  headache. 
It  would  take  the  saleratus  out  of  a  man's  dough. 

All  sorts  of  charms,  conjurations  and  magic  mighty  was 
hinted,  but  on  the  level,  one  might  as  well  take  Copenhagen  snuff 
in  diluted  skunk  oil  mixed  with  the  blood  of  a  male  saurian  three 
times  a  day,  poured  out  of  a  walrus  bladder  between  meals  until 
hell  froze  over.  As  well  might  one  expect  to  cure  madness  by 
hellebore  or  by  squirts  of  monoaceticacidester  of  salicylic  acid! 
As  well  might  one  take  the  moon  by  the  teeth.  Verily,  in  the 
presence  of  human  stupidity,  even  the  gods  stand  helpless! 
Ignorance  is  the  curse  of  God. 

These  croakers  had  the  gall  of  a  bullock,  the  heart  of  a 
hyena,  the  brains  of  a  peacock.  They  are  like  Nebuchadnezzar : 
bereft  of  reason,  and  they  eat  grass  like  an  ox.   They  indulge  in 


82 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


gaudy  fables  to  hide  the  baldness  of  a  fact.   They  are  a  rabble  of* 
quacks.  Their  philosophies  are  as  thin  as  a  draper's  wand.  They 
are  enemies  of  the  human  race.    Their  position  is  apropos  de 
bottes. 

It  is  an  adhesive  cobweb  in  the  popular  mind  that  a  fiend  can 
be  cured  without  help.  I  say  with  emphasis  that  one  could  no 
more  cure  himself  unattended,  than  one  could  force  an  injunc- 
tion against  bad  weather  or  sneak  into  heaven  on  another's  pass- 
port, for  the  reason  that  left  to  his  own  devices,  he  would  swallow 
the  jam  and  reject  the  pill. 

The  only  logical  cure  for  morphinism  is  the  gradual  reduc- 
tion system,  and  with  unflinching  fervor  I  hold  a  brief  for  it. 
It  is  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  therapeutics.  It  is  as  good  as  jacks  up 
before  the  draw,  and  I  will  gamble  a  stack  of  blues  that  it  will 
beat  three  of  a  kind.  It  is  the  white  light  of  reason  that  explores 
the  darkest  places.  It  is  the  light  that  beams  out  of  a  thousand 
stars.  It  must  perforce  appeal  even  to  the  most  uninitiated  lay- 
man, to  the  groveling  apprehension  of  the  herd,  to  the  exceed- 
ingly perverse  or  impenetrably  obtuse,  as  well  as  to  the  fervid 
dreams  of  the  man  of  science.  It  is  "  on  all  fours ' '  with  reason, 
and  it  has  received  the  blessing  of  orthodox  science.  In  fact,  it 
is  sciences'  pith  and  marrow,  its  last  word. 

Any  other  means  employed  is  likened  to  the  frog  in  the  well — 
a  crawling  up  one  foot,  a  slipping  back  two.  Any  other  means 
would  be  as  effectual  as  so  many  placebos. 

I  underwent  this  vogue  of  therapeutics  five  different  times 
with  success.  I  had  tried  others  and  failed.  The  whole  fabric  of 
my  mind  had  undergone  a  revolution  and  like  a  man  tossed  at 
the  mercy  of  the  tempest,  I  sought  a  shore  and  found  it.  This 
consisted  in  a  gradual  reduction  of  the  narcotic  ration,  cutting 
the  daily  dose  one-half  the  first  week,  and  one-half  each  succeed- 
ing week  for  from  four  to  six  weeks.  Concurrently  the  patient 
must  be  toned  up  with  reference  to  the  respiratory,  stomachic 
and  nerve  economies.  Along  with  this  a  stimulating  massage  and 
bath  twice  a  week,  together  with  a  laxative  condition  of  the 
peristaltic  tract.  The  increased  tissue  change  demands  these 
ministrations.  Manifestly,  the  patient  must  be  subjected  to  un- 
conditional restraint,  and  the  only  effectual  restraint  that  I 
happen  to  know  of  consists  of  barred  doors  and  barred  windows 
for  the  period  of  at  least  three  months. 

If,  at  the  expiration  of  this  time  the  patient  does  not  emerge 
therefrom  a  new  man  fully  recruited,  with  eyes  rounder  and 
brighter,  like  a  waking  owl's,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  face 
shining  like  a  rising  sun  and  as  brown  as  umber,  with  elastic  step 
and  agile  frame,  and  with  his  shattered  nerves  nursed  back  to 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


83 


normal  health,  I  will  be  quite  willing  to  eat  a  crocodile  alive  and 
whole,  or  eight  brown  polecats  roasted  whole  at  a  single  breakfast. 

The  gradual  reduction  system  is  one  in  which  there  is  the 
minimum  of  suffering  and  the  maximum  of  salutary  results. 
Let  the  uninitiated  be  not  seduced  into  the  flattering  idea  that 
there  are  no  terrible  moments  connected  with  this  vogue  of  thera- 
peutics. The  enemy  tramples  the  patient  into  a  dull  and  inert 
thing,  in  whom  every  aspiration  is  dead  but  craving  for  the  drug. 
One's  brows  knit  like  twine  and  one  feels  wrung  and  damp  like 
a  rag.  There  is  intolerable  restlessness,  and  one  is  goaded  by  a 
twitching  of  the  muscles.  There  are  grinding,  physical  tortures. 
One's  very  soul  seems  buried  beneath  deadening  surfaces,  from 
which  the  patient  struggles  upward  or  falls  back  as  the  craving 
for  the  drug  is  dominant  or  abeyant.  There  is  a  hideous  punc- 
tuality in  the  enemy's  advance  or  recoil.  The  conflict  is  like 
scaling  a  mountain  sheathed  in  ice — sometimes  two  steps  forward 
and  one  back ;  sometimes  a  discouraging  slip  of  many  steps  back- 
wards and  the  mountain  climber  with  no  physical  strength  to 
boast  of  and  the  handicap  of  the  long  unsuspected  indulgence. 
There  is  a  brooding  loneliness  about  it  all,  but  where  there  is  a 
spark  of  divinity  left  in  the  patient,  this  faint  glow  will  develop 
into  the  tiny  flame,  if  frail  human  effort  will  unceasingly  feed 
it.  In  this  nature  will  assert  herself.  You  may  drive  her  out 
with  a  club,  but  she  will  return.  Notwithstanding  prognostics 
and  diagnostics,  nature  will  amuse  herself  in  saving  the  patient 
in  spite  of  the  doctor's  teeth,  and  all  the  aromatics,  unguents,  and 
simples,  all  the  electrices,  mandrake,  hellebore,  monkshead,  night- 
shade, magic  balsam  and  other  exploited  piffle  in  the  dispensa- 
tory. To  be  free  one  must  fight  and  pray  and  follow  the  routine 
as  a  devotee  his  religious  ceremonial.  I  have  tried  all  systems; 
therefore,  my  declarations  are  entitled  to  consideration  as  those 
of  a  dogmatician  and  connoisseur.  Experientia  docet  stultos. 
There  is  no  rheubarb,  senna  or  purgative  drug,  nor  no  cataplasm 
so  rare  collected  from  all  simples  that  have  virtue  under  the 
moon  that  can  equal  this  vogue  of  therapeutics.  I  have  the  most 
superabounding  faith  in  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  no  faith  in  the  so-called  wonderful 
fountains  of  Arcadia,  reputed  to  cure  madness,  drunkenness,  nar- 
cotism and  kindred  ills;  neither  do  I  pin  a  tittle  of  faith  to  the 
efficacy  of  the  lotus  leaves  which  are  reputed  to  raise  the  dead ; 
nor  in  'Tsaramint,  the  favorite  stone  of  the  Arabs,  which  the 
infidels  call  emerald,  and  by  means  of  which  epilepsy  can  be 
cured.  Furthermore,  I  do  not  believe  that  cures  are  wrought  in 
dreams,  as  advanced  by  some  scientists.  All  of  these  are  broken 
reeds — physic  that  prolongs  sickly  days. 


84 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


The  fifty-six  hour  cure,  known  as  the  Lambert  cure,  is  a  de- 
funct wheeze,  the  Keeley  cure,  a  species  of  elephantine  charla- 
tanerie,  psychotherapy  is  snarled  nonsense,  and  it  is  the  parable 
of  a  moral  truth  that  they  produce  but  negative  results.  So  far 
as  home  treatments  are  concerned,  specialized  in  yellow  journal 
mummery  and  their  demagogic  promises  in  the  phrases  of  the 
charlatan,  I  would  warn  the  gullible  and  credulous  to  give  this 
class  of  nostrum  medication  a  wide  berth,  and  flee  from  them  as 
from  the  wrath  to  come.  In  them  there  is  neither  a  present 
remedy  nor  a  patient  suffering ;  and  one  might  as  well  continue 
doping,  as  to  fall  a  victim  to  these  quackeries  of  medical  experi- 
ment. As  well  might  one  jump  into  the  sea  to  escape  the  rain. 
Aegrescit  medendo.  These  latter  quacks  and  voodoo  specialists, 
like  the  before  and  after  taking  fakirs,  whose  antidotes  are 
poison,  are  in  the  lists  to  bleed,  and  they  bleed  pocketbook  and 
life  blood  alike. 


CHAPTER  X 


IN  LIVERPOOL 


"And  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now, 
Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 
Here  lies  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

From  early  youth  my  days  have  been  spent  in  wild  adventure 
and  strange  experiences,  until  at  the  age  of  fifty-five  there  were 
very  few  lands  upon  which  I  had  not  set  foot,  and  scarcely  any 
joy  or  sorrow  of  which  I  had  not  tasted.  I  had  always  been  en 
rapport  with  the  exaltation  of  travel,  and  as  I  lick  the  chaps  of 
memory  and  rake  up  from  its  gray  ruins  the  ashes  of  all  the 
yesterdays  of  my  inflammatory  career,  a  thousand  tumultuous 
recollections  are  startled  at  the  sound.  From  these  recollections 
I  photograph  in  bold  relief  my  experiments  in  Liverpool,  the  city 
of  the  open  door. 

It  was  in  July,  1902,  that  I  shipped  on  a  tramp  steamer  from 
Baltimore  to  this  port,  intending  to  return  as  a  passenger  after 
discharge  of  the  cargo  of  cattle  at  Birkenhead.  Prior  to  debarka- 
tion on  board  the  S.  S.  "Irada"  of  the  Bates  line,  I  armed  myself 
with  a  comfortable  sufficiency  of  morphia  for  the  trip,  but  my 
sensibilities  were  rudely  jarred  when  I  came  face  to  face  with  the 
alarming  prospect  of  an  appreciable  diminution  of  the  supply 
attributable  to  unforeseen  delays  on  the  itinerary.  While  wait- 
ing for  the  return  to  Baltimore,  my  spirit  of  resourcefulness 
suffered  a  severe  test  to  invent  some  means  whereby  to  fortify 
myself  with  a  sufficient  supply  for  the  return  passage.  I  trod 
the  Via  Dolorosa  on  the  streets  of  Liverpool  for  hours  in  an 
effort  to  get  the  dope,  but  was  unceremoniously  repulsed  at  every 
medical  hall  and  chemists'  shop.  As  I  alternated  between  hope 
and  despair,  but  resigned  more  to  the  promises  of  the  former 
than  in  the  apathy  of  the  latter,  it  was  suggested  to  me  that  I 
apply  at  a  large  wholesale  house,  Clay  &  Benjamin  by  name,  and 
in  response  thereto  I  put  this  suggestion  into  execution.  But 


86 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


here  I  was  equally  disappointed.  The  regulations  seemed  to  the 
very  point  of  austere  red  tape,  and  I  became  sensible  of  some 
degree  of  chagrin  at  these  informal  setbacks.  The  situation  put 
to  a  crucial  test  my  capacity  to  hit  upon  some  expedients,  but  I 
flattered  myself  that  I  had  not  yet  exhausted  my  storehouse  of 
tact  and  diplomacy. 

I  wound  up  the  clock  of  my  wit  to  strike  something  feasible. 

I  could  not  undertake  the  risk  of  returning  on  this  voyage 
without  a  necessary  supply.  A  means  automatically  formed 
itself  in  my  mind  and  I  thought  that  I  had  it  all  figured  out. 
It  involved  the  practice  of  deceit.  I  wrote  out  upon  a  blank 
sheet  of  vellum  a  pro  forma  prescription  representing  myself  as 
an  American  physician  and  surgeon — an  accredited  officer  of  the 
ship — and  presented  this  at  the  first  medical  hall  displaying  the 
sign  of  the  mortar  and  pestle.  I  handed  the  little  paper  to  an 
elderly  gentleman  behind  the  show  case.  It  was  an  M.  D.  's  pre- 
scription calling  for  60  grains  of  morphinae  sulphas.  Thereupon 
the  old  gentleman  scanned  it  and  in  an  obliging,  apologetic 
manner,  said:    "All  right,  doctor,  ready  in  a  moment,  sir." 

Now  if  an  English  moment  was  going  to  be  a  tedious 
Entr'acte,  I  was  hurried  into  a  spasm  of  suspense  as  to  what 
deportment  I  should  assume  to  smother  any  lingering  skepticism 
that  this  skull  and  cross  bones  artist  might  entertain  as  to  the 
material  representations  made.  The  ship  was  docked  at  the 
Alexandra  &  Hornby  dock  in  Bootle,  and  the  telephone  was 
handy.  I  was  hence  keenly  sensitive ;  but  I  had  to  have  the  dope, 
and  was  prepared  to  put  on  a  tragic  face  with  an  air  of  exceeding 
insouciance. 

Swelled  up  by  being  dubbed  a  doctor,  I  endeavored  to  look 
the  part  of  a  sawbones  by  summoning  up  all  the  audacity  in  my 
makeup.  I  even  in  the  interim  proceeded  so  far  as  to  venture 
some  dialectical  jugglery  about  toxics  and  materia  medica  in 
general  to  further  confirm  an  impression  of  sincerity  in  this 
bolstering  up  of  my  status.  This  was  pour  passer  le  temps  and 
to  frustrate  his  asking  any  significant  questions ;  and  yet  had  he 
suddenly  asked  me  how  many  bones  there  were  in  the  arm,  I 
would  be  helpless  to  inform  him,  altho'  in  abject  desperation,  I 
would  have  blundered  a  guess  or  gained  time  by  indulging  in 
some  periphrastic  dialectics. 

Up  to  this  time  I  was  to  be  L'homme  faire  df  importance. 
Before  entering  this  shop  I  had  conceived  some  fabricated  bar- 
riers to  impertinent  questions,  but  this  ruse  of  engaging  his  at- 
tention was  germinated  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  justified 
the  means,  for  I  well  knew  that  the  English  people  were  sticklers 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


87 


for  legal  restrictions,  and  in  any  case  the  least  hitch  would  con- 
sign me  to  appear  before  the  English  Cadi. 

I  must  have  been  lucky,  for  the  dispenser  handed  me  a  pack- 
age in  the  ordinary  course.  I  passed  him  a  half  crown  and 
started  to  leave  his  shop,  when  he  mumbled  something  about 
farthings.  But  I  did  not  want  to  take  any  chances  of  being 
foiled  at  the  point  of  success.  I  said  that  I  had  kissed  the  tin 
good-bye,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Suspicion  haunted  my  guilty 
mind,  and  like  the  thief,  I  thought  each  bush  was  an  officer,  each 
face  an  accusing  one.  He  followed  me  to  the  door  and  handed 
me  the  change,  but  even  at  this,  the  eleventh  hour,  I  thought  of 
proceeding  on  my  way  when  I  obtained  a  view  of  his  mug,  which 
revealed  to  me  freedom  from  uncertainty  and  I  mechanically 
accepted.  I  then  started  on  a  walk  and  kept  going,  not  in  any 
definite  direction,  but  in  any  meandering  course  as  far  from  that 
chemist 's  shop  as  time  and  my  pins  would  carry  me. 

Before  commencing  another  similar  assault  upon  the  English 
chemists  for  more  dope,  I  squirted  fifteen  grains  of  the  English 
brand  of  morphia  into  the  tissues,  and  as  I  did  so,  I  thought 
instinctively  of  Thomas  De  Quincy,  author  of  the  ' '  Confessions, ' ' 
and  who  was  born  at  Greenbay,  near  Manchester,  August  15th, 
1785,  and  died  at  Edinburgh,  December  8th,  1859,  in  the  old 
churchyard  of  the  West  Church  there  and  upon  which  Edin- 
burgh castle  stands. 

Assumption  and  naturalness  are  two  different  things.  The 
former  is  usually  difficult  except  to  a  born  actor,  but  the  latter 
is  as  easy  as  natural  respiration.  Being  simply  a  player  on  the 
stage  of  life,  I  had  to  depend  on  dissimulation  in  the  turning  of 
tricks,  and  at  the  same  time  being  lit  up  like  an  Episcopal 
cathedral  by  the  electrifying  "shot"  just  taken,  I  awaited  re- 
sults with  a  degree  of  self-complacency  that  would  outface  the 
most  superlative  staller  with  brazen  indifference.  It  is  the  irony 
of  fate  that  clouds  intervene  in  shimmering  sunlight,  but  this 
occasion  was  decreed  an  exception.  Either  the  immortal  gods 
appeared  or  it  was  a  bold  proposition  of  vagrant  luck,  for  my 
ante  wasn't  called  by  the  dispenser.  Without  focusing  me  with 
even  a  glance  of  introspection,  the  chemist  proceeded  to  accom- 
modate me,  and  I  retired  with  an  additional  sixty  grains  ob- 
tained in  a  country  where  the  most  exact  restrictions  prevailed 
involving  a  pitiless  fire  of  investigation  and  a  scrutiny  that  can 
only  be  equalled  by  the  curriculum  formulated  by  Scotland 
Yard's  third  degree. 

Upon  turning  a  corner  well  out  of  alignment  with  this  latter 
shop,  I  fell  into  step  with  myself  and  I  actually  shook  hands  with 


88 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


myself,  and  I  mentally  congratulated  myself  upon  having  turned 
the  trick  of  hoodwinking  these  English  apothecaries. 

Flushed  by  these  conquests,  I  was  impelled  to  repeat  these 
onslaughts,  knowing  that  it  would  take  about  sixteen  days  to 
return  across  the  Atlantic  pond  on  a  " Tramp."  Would  it  be 
sufficient  for  the  fierce  lust  of  accustomed  nerves?  I  thought 
that  it  would,  and  accordingly  took  passage  on  the  S.  S.  "In- 
dore"  of  the  Donaldson  line  docking  at  the  monumental  city, 
again  on  natal  soil. 


CHAPTER  XI 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  GLASGOW 


"/  do  remember  an  apothecary — 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells — which  late  I  noted 
In  tattered  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows, 
Culling  of  simples;  meagre  were  his  looks, 
Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones; 
And  in  his  needy  shop  a  tortoise  hung, 
An  alligator  stuffed  and  other  skins 
Of  ill-shaped  fishes;  and  about  his  shelves 
A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes, 
Green  earthen  pots,  bladders  and  musty  seeds, 
Remnants  of  packthread  and  old  cakes  of  roses 
Were  thinly  scattered  to  make  up  a  show" 
— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

In  October,  1902,  I  shipped  from  Philadelphia  for  the  port 
of  Glasgow  on  board  the  tramp  vessel  "Orthia"  of  the  Donald- 
son Line,  carrying  a  cargo  of  cattle.  Following  so  closely  upon 
the  heels  of  my  experiences  in  Liverpool,  I  should  have  profited 
thereby,  for  in  the  Scotch  city  I  ran  out  of  dope  and  was  con- 
strained to  concoct  schemes  involving  deceit  and  perfidy,  trick- 
ery and  knavery  and  perjury,  that  I  might  land  a  store  of 
morphia  for  the  return  voyage  to  the  Quaker  city. 

I  had  been  a  muleteer  on  board  this  vessel,  hence  my  habili- 
ments were  not  presentable  for  posing  as  a  doctor,  and  I  resolved 
to  initiate  a  crusade  by  precipitately  entering  each  medical  hall 
that  I  came  to.  From  a  consideration  of  the  many  refusals  that 
marked  this  canvass,  I  concluded  that  they  arose  because  my  per- 
sonal appearance  was  against  me,  and,  in  all  seriousness,  I 
looked  the  part  of  a  sheepherder. 

The  world  is  a  looking  glass,  and  gives  back  to  everyone  the 
reflection  of  his  own  face. 

The  chemists  replied  that  they  had  not  the  sulphate  of 
morphia  in  stock,  but  had  other  forms,  the  acetate,  the  oleate, 
hydrobromide,  the  hydrochloride  and  the  poison  united  with 
atropia.    I  resolved  that  certain  replies  were  evasive  and  manu- 


90  THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


factured  to  non-plus  me.  These  was  as  follows:  "Are  you  a 
drug  fiend?"  "Are  you  a  Yank?"  "Do  you  want  to  commit 
suicide  or  kill  someone?"  "It  is  against  the  law  to  dispense 
morphia. ' ' 

In  reply  to  the  apothecary  who  inquired  if  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  using  it,  I  said  "Yes,"  when  he  at  once  responded:  "We 
cawn't  serve  you,"  in  the  monosyllabic  accent  of  the  Bowbells. 
But  I  endeavored  to  close  with  this  bloke  in  a  rueful  entreaty,  in 
the  piteous  strained  voice  of  the  morphine  hophead,  but  he  fas- 
tened upon  me  the  necropolis  goggle  by  uttering  the  unchange- 
able ukase :    '  *  We  cawn 't  serve  you,  Yank. ' ' 

I  now  became  immersed  in  a  "  brown  study ' '  relative  to  other 
makeshifts  that  I  should  pursue,  and  the  impulse  came  to  ap- 
proach indiscriminately  each  and  every  medical  man  whose  sign 
I  might  notice  as  I  passed.  I  thought  that  doctors  are  men,  not 
gods,  and  I  would  trust  to  luck  to  meet  up  with  the  sawbones  of 
chemical  attraction.  Should  he  pinion  me  under  the  fire  of  in- 
quisition, the  purplish  knots  on  my  skin  would  confirm  chronic 
habituation  under  his  trained  eye.  My  appearance  was  har- 
monious— I  was  as  unpresentable  as  a  moulting  fowl. 

I  commenced  a  tour  of  the  doctors  about  George's  Square, 
and  without  ceremony  I  was  repulsed  by  them  until  I  ran  into 
Sauchiehall  Street.  Here  I  read  the  name,  "Dr.  MacDonald. " 
"This  is  a  good  Scotch  name,"  I  reflected,  and  "I  will  bum 
him."  I  thought  that  he  might  be  a  lineal  descendent  of  the 
merciless  Macdonwalds  who  mixed  in  border  strike  with  the 
equally  merciless  Campbells  in  the  Glencoe  massacre,  and  if  I 
impart  to  him  that  I  descended  from  that  root  and  branch,  he 
might  swallow  the  bull  without  a  "chaser."  Thus  disposing,  I 
entered  his  office  on  the  third  floor  about  the  noon  hour,  and  sat 
down  in  his  reception  room  awaiting  his  entree.  I  sat  there  for 
a  doleful  hour,  when  I  advanced  to  the  door  upon  which  sus- 
pended a  placard,  "Doctor  is  in. ' '  Here  I  opened  wide  the  door  ; 
daylight  there  and  nothing  more.  Of  course,  besides  this  day- 
light there  was  a  formidable  array  of  philtres  and  phials  and 
bottles  of  different  sizes  and  colors  and  labels,  containing  vari- 
colored liquids  and  pills  and  squills  and  oils  and  triturates ;  also 
a  long  line  of  glass  jars  containing  pathological  and  anatomical 
specimens,  glazed  presses  full  of  chemcials ;  in  fact,  it  seemed  an 
exhaustive  laboratory. 

I  was  immediately  seized  with  the  fever  of  covetousness. 

It  is  a  postulate  that  no  matter  what  exact  conceptions  a 
fiend  may  have  had  prior  to  his  slavery  in  narcotism  as  to  gen- 
eral rectitude  and  morality,  when  the  time  arrives  that  he  is  in 
need  of  a  "shot,"  or  where  it  may  become  necessary  to  put  in  a 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


1)1 


store  to  circumvent  future  suffering,  all  such  conceptions  are 
brushed  aside  and  the  fiend  nurses  no  compunctions  of  con- 
science. He  will  steal;  he  will  forswear;  he  will  commit  any 
brand  of  knavery  to  obtain  the  stuff  to  lull  the  lust  of  nerves. 
The  habit  of  morphia  will  make  a  sinner  out  of  a  saint.  A 
preacher  of  the  orthodox  gospel,  no  matter  if  he  be  inoculated 
with  the  quintessence  of  puritanical  prudery,  will  indulge  in 
the  latest  brand  of  picturesque  blasphemy  to  get  the  stuff.  The 
most  inveterate  liar  and  thief  that  I  ever  knew  was  a  fellow 
addict  when  in  the  slough  of  lustful  nerves.  He  was  normal  in 
every  regard  when  not  lit  up  with  dope ;  but  when  he  needed  a 
"shot,"  he  would  steal  the  candles  set  round  a  corpse  and  lie  to 
the  priest  before  the  confessional  for  a  "jolt"  of  the  peerless 
nepenthe. 

I  further  argued  in  this  wise :  * '  The  doctor  is  out  and  has 
been  out  for  an  hour ;  he  may  be  absent  another  hour,  and  I  may 
have  time  within  which  to  scan  the  labels  on  the  bottles,  boxes 
and  cartons  and  surreptitiously  purloin  a  supply  and  effect  a 
getaway  unnoticed.  I  might  be  able  to  square  myself  should  the 
doctor  intercept  me  redhanded,  so  I  at  once  commenced  a  survey 
of  the  shelves  expecting  to  find  the  abbreviation  Morph  Sulph 
on  a  label.  I  was  searching  for  bottles  of  poison  and  I  knew 
that  I  would  find  them  wherever  there  were  bundles  of  foul 
smells  and  bitter  tastes.  I  finally  located  one — an  eight  ounce 
globule — which  I  hastily  stowed  into  the  inside  pocket  of  my 
coat  and  "blew,"  and  stopped  not  until  I  had  reached  the 
Broomielaw,  the  most  notorious  rendezvous  in  Glasgow,  alive 
with  drunken  sailors  and  the  depraved  in  general. 

I  was  still  up  against  the  proposition  that  I  would  require 
more  than  this  for  the  return  passage,  and  resolved  to  repeat  the 
routine  followed  in  Liverpool,  which  was  an  assault  upon  the 
apothecaries.  I  possessed  a  few  shillings  remaining  as  a  pe- 
cuniary pabulum  from  services  rendered  as  a  cattleman  on  the 
ship,  and  these  I  would  sink  into  the  coffers  of  the  chemists. 
The  barber  reaped  my  antique  stubble;  I  handed  the  bootblack 
and  the  haberdasher  beggarly  deniers,  and,  observing  my  front 
elevation  in  a  tavern  mirror,  I  thought  that  I  reflected  a  shadow 
much  like  one  having  danced  out  of  a  bandbox  en  grande  tenue. 
The  fine  feathers  fitted  me  like  a  glove  and  translated  me  from 
rags  to  the  livery  of  gentility.  My  hair  was  pommaded  with 
bear's  grease  and  bergamot  and  a  fine  wisp  of  VanDyke  whiskers 
adorned  my  sinciput. 

I  drove  the  little  needle  into  the  tissues  of  my  left  arm  and  I 
had  a  "kick"  coming.  I  then  prepared  holographically  a  pro 
forma  prescription  for  one  drachm  of  morphia  and  signed 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


"M.  D."  after  a  quaint  and  curious  name.  Without  fear  or  re- 
proach, I  presented  this  at  the  nearest  chemist's  shop.  I  double- 
headed  the  joke  at  another  and  still  another  shop,  until  I  was 
rewarded  by  receiving  a  store  of  six  drachms  of  the  Argyle 
Street  chemists.  As  I  left  the  green  braes  of  Scotland  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  not  tied  a  tin  can  to  my  tail. 

It  is  the  tact,  the  diplomacy  of  Machiavelli  and  Metternich, 
the  savior  fairs  that  make  stocks  rise  in  value  in  human  trans- 
actions. In  the  formation  of  plans,  one  must  possess  the  boldness 
of  Richelieu;  to  carry  them  into  effect,  the  tact  and  wariness 
worthy  of  Mazarin. 


CHAPTER  XII 


IN  AFRICA,  THE  HOLY  LAND,  GREECE, 
ITALY  AND  FRANCE 


"Here  is  thy  gold,  worse  poison  to  men's  souls, 
Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  mayst  not  sell; 
I  sell  thee  poison;  thou  hast  sold  me  none." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

I  indentured  on  board  the  S.  S.  ''Mount  Royal"  of  the 
Beaver  Line  en  tour  to  South  Africa,  to  participate  in  the  Boer 
War  as  a  newspaper  correspondent,  and  sailed  from  Southport, 
New  Orleans,  April  6th,  1901. 

I  was  now  using  from  thirty  to  forty  grains  of  morphine  per 
day  hypodermically.  The  fact  that  this  itinerary  would  con- 
sume about  seventy-five  days,  I  made  preparations  for  a  supply 
of  dope  to  cover  this  cosmic  journey.  This  included  needles, 
wires,  spoon  and  absorbent  cotton,  together  with  the  indispens- 
able syringe  and  as  for  the  matchless  nectar,  the  natural  liquor, 
this  latter  was  obtainable  on  board. 

Thirty-five  days  was  employed  on  this  voyage  when  we 
entered  upon  the  waters  of  Table  Bay,  before  Cape  Town,  and 
from  here  we  jailed  to  Durban. 

On  the  ramble  across  the  briny  I  suffered  a  coup-de~pied 
during  the  prevalence  of  a  hurricane  and  this  entailed  the  loss  of 
a  material  quantity  of  the  dope  by  salt  water  absorption.  As  to 
this  I  was  faced  by  a  clumsy  dilemma  and  realized  that  I  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  strangers  in  a  war-ridden  zone.  The  first 
thing  that  I  did  was  to  make  confession  of  chronic  addiction  to 
the  ship 's  doctor,  and  having  found  out  that  he  was  an  American, 
I  thought  that  he  would,  without  serious  opposition  yield,  but  on 
the  contrary  I  found  him  colder  than  a  dead  baby's  toes  and  I 
upbraided  myself  for  my  indiscretion  in  monotonous  impreca- 
tions addressed  to  myself.  But  I  knew  that  it  was  next  to  im- 
possible to  daunt  a  Yankee  fiend  and  the  rebuff  only  sharpened 
the  blade  of  my  determination. 


94 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


For  sixteen  years  before  this  I  had  used  the  stuff  in  the 
United  States  and  in  Canada  and  where  I  had  been  confronted 
with  no  opposition  in  getting  it.  The  sine  qua  non  was  the  color 
of  my  bullion  and  with  this  one  could  purchase  a  barrel.  But  it 
seemed  that  the  laws  in  South  Africa,  as  in  other  places  where  I 
visited  with  impinged  nerves  for  the  want  of  it,  the  laws  were 
perfunctory  and  I  got  by  by  handing  over  the  money.  And  the 
price  was  the  same,  a  shilling  a  drachm.  This  is  the  lowest  price 
that  I  ever  obtained  it  in  America,  but  it  advanced  from  six  to 
ten  dollars  per  drachm  just  prior  to  the  passage  of  the  anti-drug 
law  of  Congress  in  December,  1914. 

Now  in  South  Africa  I  was  in  the  enemy's  country,  and  I 
mean  by  this  that  I  was  an  American  and  being  a  newspaper 
correspondent,  and  hence  neutral,  I  was  more  or  less  a  target  for 
suspicious  malcontents,  and  furthermore  civil  law  was  suspended 
and  in  its  place  was  martial  law,  with  its  gruelling  exactions  and 
I  was  up  against  the  ' '  gun. ' '  I  may  have  been  over  apprehensive 
relative  thereto,  but  in  all  seriousness  the  outlook  carried  with  it 
the  complexion  of  alarm.  Desperate  maladies  require  drastic 
means,  and  I  bided  my  time  in  a  strange  blending  of  hope  and 
doubt.  Durban  is  a  town  of  about  15,000  population,  and  surely 
a  Yankee  of  medial  wit  could  make  the  riffle  anywhere,  at  any 
time  and  under  any  circumstances ! 

Par  Parthenese,  the  "bulls"  of  Durban  were  housed  In  odd 
and  grotesque  harness,  some  with  rings  in  ears  and  nose  and 
round  their  ankles,  and  they  trotted  about  in  the  discharge  of 
official  and  ministerial  duties  arrayed  in  "government  socks." 
The  police  force  consisted  of  others  besides  Zulus,  and  one  of 
these  happened  to  be  an  American  from  Arkansaw,  and  to  this 
• '  bull ' '  I  unburdened  my  dolors.  It  was  a  meticulous  undertak- 
ing and  he  raked  in  the  jackpot  by  saying  that  he  was  without 
advice,  and  I  shook  him  like  a  steer  in  the  road,  but  before  I  did 
this,  I  sized  him  up  in  vitriolic  billingsgate.  It  is  hard  to  hide 
the  sparks  of  nature.  I  want  to  say  that  he  was  a  man  of  vinegar 
aspect  and  evidently  scared  of  his  own  shadow.  I  therefore  gave 
myself  up  to  the  unprofitable  occupation  of  concluding  that  he 
was  incapable  of  either  laughing  when  a  funeral  passed,  or  of 
weeping  at  a  wedding,  and  so  conclusive  was  I  of  his  individual 
makeup  that  I  refuted  the  allegation  of  his  Arkansaw  nativity. 

It  is  a  miracle  that  he  did  not  "spring"  me  to  the  borough 
burgess. 

Hotfoot  on  this  rebuff,  I  walked  into  a  chemist's  shop  and 
after  having  made  insistent  appeals,  I  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
that  they  would  take  no  chances  except  upon  an  M.  D.  's  R. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


95 


Therefore,  like  one  obsessed,  I  entered  a  strange  shop  and  there 
in  cold  blood  wrote  out  a  pro  forma  prescription  for  a  drachm 
of  morphia,  and  signed  it  as  a  Cape  Town  physician  and  sur- 
geon, a  frame-up  pregnant  with  shocking  perjury  and  monstrous 
deceit.  He  looked  it  over,  filed  it  in  a  strange  dossier  and  mo- 
tioned me  to  sign  up.  I  signed  the  death  warrant  and  he  handed 
me  a  drachm  of  the  "snow"  in  a  card-board  box.  During  these 
anxious  moments,  my  brain  and  sense  and  soul  and  eye  reeled, 
and  I  hurriedly  asked  the  chemist  to  double-head  the  order,  for 
reasons  better  known  to  himself.  He  did  so,  after  I  had  shoved 
him  the  shillings,  and  I  escaped  with  two  drachms,  enough  to 
silence  refractory  and  irritated  nerves. 

Barbadoes  Island  was  the  only  stop  on  the  return  voyage  and 
at  Bridgetown,  we  anchored  and  the  morphine  fiend  went  ashore. 
Here  I  boned  a  copper  colored  doctor  for  another  drachm,  and 
we  parleyed  the  haw-haw  of  the  bow-bells  until  the  drawl  of  the 
hawser  was  heard  in  the  West  Indies. 

In  the  melancholy  days  of  the  sad  year  of  1901,  our  tramp 
got  into  New  Orleans  July  2nd,  1901,  and  I  at  once  re-engaged ; 
but  before  embarkation  I  puchased  four  ounces  (thirty-two 
drachms)  of  morphia  and  added  to  it  a  half  dozen  hypodermic 
syringes  in  black  Morocco  cases,  needles,  wire  and  cotton,  and  in 
fact,  enough  even  if  the  captain  had  sealed  orders.  The  end  of 
the  journey  brought  us  into  the  Buffalo  River  to  the  East  Lon- 
don docks.  This  town  is  well  known  by  reason  of  its  fine  gin, 
and  being  a  voluptuary  by  nature  designed,  I  could  not  resist  its 
seductions  and  I  fell  at  folly's  shrine.  This  may  seem  bizarre, 
as  morphia  and  drink  do  not  go  well  together,  but  I  was  moulded 
in  such  a  way  that  my  whole  animal  economy  is  essentially  apart 
from  my  fellows.  Therefore,  while  the  average  morphine  addict 
would  be  content  with  the  dope,  I  easily  fell  for  East  London 
gin,  Scotch  highballs,  in  fact,  any  imported  spirits.  So  that 
eleven  thousand  miles  from  the  U.  S.  A.,  velvet  drunk,  and  a 
dope  habitue  did  not  concern  me ;  neither  did  the  fact  that  after- 
wards I  was  thrown  into  the  East  London  gaol.  But,  believe 
me,  when  I  was  released,  I  believed  that  to  every  bird  its  own 
nest  is  charming,  and  I  longed  for  the  home  of  my  fathers.  From 
this  drunk  I  sobered  up  on  morphia,  the  only  true  panacea  for 
barleycorn  headaches.  It  may  seem  strange  to  some  that  one  can 
sober  up  from  the  disagreeable  effects  of  whiskey  by  taking  mor- 
phine, but  all  the  whiskey  in  all  the  world  would  not  take  the 
place  of  morphia  when  the  addict  suffers  from  disorganized, 
impinged  and  irritated  nerves. 

With  a  heroic  determination  to  crucify  my  natural  pride,  I 
shipped  on  the  steamer  "Gibraltar"  as  a  messman  in  the  galley 


96 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


bound  for  Europe  via  the  Suez  Canal.  Here  on  this  voyage  an 
indigenous  fevor  seized  me  while  we  coasted  East  Africa,  and  its 
ravages  compelled  me  to  quit  the  vessel  at  Suez.  It  was  then  that 
I  shot  abnormal  doses  of  morphia  and  absorbed  the  dope  as  a 
lily  drinks  dew,  as  I  knew  from  actual  experience  that  this  drug 
is  the  relief  de  luxe.  I  know  also  that  it  is  a  counter-agent  in  the 
distress  known  as  "The  heaving  up  of  Jonah."  On  a  trip  like 
this  was,  half  work  and  half  play,  I  only  needed  to  be  drugged 
and  I  spurned  calomel,  rheubarb,  quinine,  ipecacuanha,  sulphate 
of  zinc  and  monoacetica  cidester  of  salicylic  acid. 

As  our  ship  came  within  sight  of  and  skirted  the  shores  of 
the  Persian  Gulf,  just  before  entering  the  Suez  Canal  at  Suez, 
I  impulsively  thought  of  the  poppy  which  is  fructuously  hus- 
banded here,  which  are  chaliced  and  flame  to  red,  and  the  scarlet 
cups  of  which  are  filled  with  sunshine  and  bitterness.  This  was 
my  first  glimpse  of  the  land  of  the  Pharaohs,  the  land  of  sixty 
centuries  and  the  mighty  peace  of  Egypt's  sky,  ablaze  with 
splendor. 

From  Suez  I  journeyed  to  Cairo,  population  654,000.  It  was 
the  full  season  at  the  capital,  the  mystic  land  of  the  old  gods 
filled  with  profound  enigmas  of  the  supernatural  and  dark 
secrets  yet  unexplored.  The  city  is  noted  for  its  hundreds  of 
beautiful  mosques,  and  magnificent  old  palaces,  and  for  its  being 
the  chief  center  of  Mohammedan  learning. 

On  the  Mouskee,  Cairo's  principal  street,  I  got  on  the  hump 
of  a  "ship  of  the  desert,"  and  visited  the  tombs  of  the  Caliphs, 
the  Mamelukes,  the  Obelisk  of  the  Heliopolis,  the  temples  of 
Khons  and  Amons  at  Karnak,  the  Temples  of  Luxor  and  Rameses 
III  at  Thebes,  which,  according  to  Homer,  had  a  hundred  gates. 
Then  I  viewed  the  Sphinx,  slumbering  there  for  centuries,  the 
mighty  guesser  of  riddles,  and  lastly  the  Pyramid  of  Ghizeh  at 
the  edge  of  the  Libyan  desert,  just  eight  miles  from  the  strangest 
city  in  the  world,  Ghizeh,  whose  proportions  are  as  wonderfully 
significant  of  accurate  knowledge  concerning  astronomy  and  the 
evolution  of  the  earth. 

From  Cairo  I  "  shanks-mared "  it  to  the  luxurious,  the 
pleasure-loving  city  of  Alexandria,  population  390,000,  the  city 
founded  by  Alexander  the  Great  and  the  home  of  the  Ptolemies. 
This  city  is  located  at  the  delta  of  the  Nile,  a  distance  of  131 
miles  from  Cairo  thru  the  Valley  of  the  Nile,  as  the  crow  flies. 
It  is  the  largest  valley  in  Africa  and  the  most  fruitful  in  the 
world.  This  area  occupies  the  northeastern  corner  of  the  conti- 
nent, as  every  school  boy  knows,  being  separated  from  Arabia 
by  a  narrow  strip  of  sea  and  guarded  on  the  west  by  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  desert.    The  route  between  Cairo  and  Alexandria 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


97 


is  littered  with  trees  and  sycamore  and  date-palms  and  filled 
with  ugly  buffaloes,  white  heron  and  pestiferous  Nilotic  flies. 
Amid  the  Nilotic  reeds  I  observed  basking  crocodiles  from  20  to 
28  feet  long,  a  live,  horrible  peril  of  the  Nile. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  Naples  is  the  dirtiest  city  of  them 
all.  I  have  been  in  this  Italian  city,  too,  and  while  this  dictum 
may  be  true  relative  to  some  phases,  Alexandria  has  it  stopped 
four  ways  from  the  Jack  for  dirty  bazars,  nakedness,  filth,  dirt, 
poverty  and  wretchedness.  Neither  Pompey's  Pillar  nor  Cleo- 
patra's Needle  can  redeem  it. 

On  this  walk  of  131  miles,  passing  thru  the  towns  of  Benha 
and  Tauta,  I  did  not  hear  great  Memnon's  morning  song,  even 
when  marble  lips  were  smitten  by  the  sun,  but  I  saw  scarab 
beetles  and  felt  their  sting,  a  sting  that  would  out-sting  the 
sting  of  death  itself;  and  I  found  time  to  observe  Father  Nile 
toss  his  brown  and  turgid  waves  and  time  to  brood  over  the  mys- 
teries of  this  wonderful  stream — its  cataracts — an  extraordinary 
pnaorama,  so  wild,  so  weird,  so  desolate,  and  of  such  transcend- 
ent color — and  incidentally  to  see  a  dahabeah  swallowed  by  a 
crocodile. 

I  accepted  menial  service  on  board  a  steamer  flying  the  Aus- 
trian flag  and  this  steamer  carried  us  to  Port  Said,  said  to  be  the 
greatest  coaling  station  in  the  world.  It  is  situated  on  a  spit  of 
Egyptian  sand  at  the  head  of  the  Suez  Canal,  the  world's  high- 
way to  the  Far  East.  I  had  time  enough  to  go  ashore  here  and 
get  outside  of  a  few  calabashes  of  imported  liquor,  and  see  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  inebriated  seamen  hailing  ostensibly  from 
every  port,  and  in  twenty-five  hours  the  Austrian  tripper 
dropped  anchor  in  front  of  Jaffa,  reputed  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  orange  markets  in  the  world,  and  the  port  where  Solo- 
mon landed  the  timbers  which  formed  the  construction  of  his 
magnificent  temple. 

I  was  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  knowing  that  I  had  enough 
morphia  to  last  by  judicious  husbanding  for  about  two  months,  I 
concluded  to  pay  homage  to  the  shrines  based  on  traditional 
hypothesis  and  visit  a  country  crowded  with  memories  and  asso- 
ciations which  have  been  woven  into  our  minds  by  the  wonderful 
bible  story.  So  first  in  Jaffa  I  visited  the  house  of  Simon  the 
Tanner,  and  then  the  great  city  gate.  From  here  I  trudged  to 
Ramleh,  a  town  sporting  the  tall  tower  of  the  forty  martyrs  and 
situated  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  groves  and  orchards  of  olives 
and  sycamores,  interspersed  with  palm  trees;  then  thru  the 
Valley  of  the  Sharon  and  the  hills  of  Judea  and  on  into  Jeru- 
salem, a  distance  of  about  forty  miles  by  country  road  and  thru 
which  the  Israelites  and  Philistines  fought  centuries  since.  I 


98 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


was  surcharged  with  emotion  as  I  approached  the  light  blue 
minarets  of  the  Gates  of  Zion,  and  the  blue  cupolas  of  its 
mosques.  Repeatedly  I  soliloquized :  "  Is  it  possible  that  I  am 
approaching  Jerusalem,  the  Holy  City  ? ' '  Thru  the  Jaffa  Gate  I 
entered  and  down  the  street  of  David.  I  turned  into  Christ 
street,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  was  in  front  of  the  Church  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,  and  by  an  ascent  of  about  fifteen  feet  I  got  to 
Golgotha.  In  fact,  I  was  on  Golgotha  Hill.  From  the  Mosque 
of  Omar  I  viewed  the  landscape  on  the  outside  of  Jerusalem,  and 
returned  to  the  Church.  The  Place  of  the  Sepulchre  with  its 
stone  of  Unction  is  a  weird  and  shadowy  place.  It  put  me  in 
mind  of  the  Whispering  Galleries.  Of  course,  I  viewed  the 
marble  slab  which  was  pointed  out  to  me  and  to  other  tourists  as 
the  place  where  the  body  of  Jesus  Christ  was  finally  anointed 
with  spikenard  and  other  oils,  immediately  succeeding  the  cruci- 
fixion. With  the  group  of  sensation-lovers  I  climbed  the  steps 
which  brought  us  to  the  Chapel  of  the  Crucifixion,  and  this  was 
in  all  seriousness  dingier  than  a  dungeon,  and  would  be  as  black 
as  the  City  of  Dreadful  Night  had  not  the  tapers  and  lamps 
burned.  Here  were  icons  and  other  images,  and  the  whole  red- 
olent with  the  incense  of  idolatry.  Our  guide  told  us  that  here 
in  front  of  an  altar  pointed  out  was  the  rock  where  the  Holy 
Cross  stood;  and  on  either  side  of  it  were  the  sockets  which  re- 
ceived the  crosses  of  the  two  thieves. 

A  lot  of  priests  hung  about  and  dawdled  about,  attired  in 
robes  of  the  darkest  crepe,  and  they  sported  on  their  heads  tall, 
cylindrical  hats  and  about  their  loins  hung  girdles  of  rope  and 
their  heads  were  pedantically  tonsured.  A  perfect  swarm  of 
penitents  constantly  ascended  and  descended  these  stairs,  at 
times  kneeling  in  reverential  obeisance  and  muttering  petitions 
of  devotion  to  the  unknown  spirit  that  rules  the  universal  cosmos. 
From  chapel  to  chapel  I  wandered,  from  "The  Centre  of  the 
World"  to  the  Chapel  of  the  Syrians,  where  are  supposed  to  be 
the  ashes  of  Nicodemus  and  Joseph  of  Arimathea ;  the  Chapel  of 
the  Apparition,  the  Chapel  of  St.  Helena,  and  the  Chapel  of  the 
Parting  of  the  Raiment,  the  Abyssinian  Chapel,  the  Coptic 
Chapel  of  Saint  Michael  and  the  Church  of  Abraham.  But  the 
greatest  of  these  is  the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  The  com- 
pany on  this  occasion  was  accompanied  by  guides  who  told  what 
was  what,  and  the  company  reached  thru  a  low  doorway  a  cham- 
ber about  six  feet  square  containing  the  rock  hewn  tomb  of  the 
Meek  and  Lowly  Nazarene.  Pilgrims,  rich  and  poor,  and  from 
all  over  the  world,  kneel  and  kiss  this  worn  slab  of  marble,  and 
emerge  therefrom  seemingly  with  a  load  lifted  from  their 
shoulders.    The  priests  bless  the  relics  placed  upon  the  altar  by 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


99 


these  devotees.  Among  these  devotees  I  observed  old  men  close 
their  eyes  and  rest  their  faces  on  this  tombstone,  and  when  a  lazy 
minute  had  escaped  from  the  hour  glass,  they  would  raise  their 
faces  and  upon  their  countenances  was  depicted  a  serene  and 
benignant  look,  and  they  would  retreat  in  reverential  obsequious- 
ness. I  also  observed  an  old  grandmother  bent  by  the  hurry  of 
the  years,  with  wrinkled  face  and  valetudinary  step,  approach 
this  fountain  of  absolution,  actually  lie  down  upon  the  stone  and 
in  a  sibilant  monotone  mutter  an  untranslatable  appeal  to  the 
cleft  in  the  rock.  I  saw  others  appeal  in  other  ways,  and  this  is 
what  one  sees  in  the  indiscriminate  craving  for  penitence  in  the 
very  shadow  of  the  altar  itself. 

The  succeeding  points  of  interest  after  I  had  gone  out  the 
Damascus  Gate  in  Jerusalem  were  Mount  Zion  and  Mount 
Moriah  and  Solomon's  Temple.  The  far-famed  Mount  of  Olives 
next  claimed  my  attention,  and  then  the  pools  of  Bethesda  and 
Siloam,  and  my  pulses  thrilled  as  I  entered  Bethlehem,  after 
having  passed  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Kedron  and  the  Tomb  of  the  Virgin  and  the  tomb  of  Rachel, 
the  mother  of  Benjamin,  preserved  thru  thirty  centuries.  It  has 
been  said  that  at  the  time  of  Christ,  there  was  no  room  for  the 
Holy  Family  at  the  inn,  and  this  is  advanced  as  one  of  the  rea- 
sons that  Christ  was  born  in  a  manger.  In  my  judgment,  things 
have  not  improved  much  since  that  time,  for,  altho'  I  had  the 
dinero  to  pay,  I  was  constrained  to  sleep  in  a  tent  in  Bethlehem. 
Before  I  left  this  city,  I  visited  the  Church  of  the  Nativity  and 
here  I  descended  into  the  Grotto  and  read  the  inscription  on  a 
silver  star:  "Hie  de  Virgine  Jesus  Christus  natus  est."  Here 
I  saw  streams  of  poor  pilgrims — Greeks,  Armenians  and  Latins 
— come  kneeling  and  kiss  this  star,  the  stone  and  the  altar. 

From  Bethlehem  I  roamed  to  the  Convent  of  Mars  Saba,  and 
on  to  the  Dead  Sea.  Away  to  the  left  I  viewed  the  Valley  of  the 
Jordan  with  the  famous  river  winding  thru  it  in  numberless 
curves  and  zigzags  and  close  by  the  mountains  of  Gilead  and 
Moab.  The  Jordan  is  supposed  to  be  the  lowest  body  of  water 
in  the  world  and  is  nearer  the  center  of  the  earth  than  any 
other,  and  according  to  tradition  the  cities  of  Sodom  and 
Gomorrah  are  under  its  waters.  The  river  itself,  that  is,  its 
surface,  is  600  feet  below  the  Mediterranean.  Based  upon  tra- 
ditional lore  along  its  banks  it  is  a  dense,  half-tropical  jungle, 
haunted  by  wild  beasts  and  poisonous  reptiles.  The  river  is 
reputed  to  have  a  shifting  bottom  and  its  currents  are  ever- 
changing.  Notwithstanding  these,  in  order  to  gratify  a  momen- 
tary impulse  I  took  a  plunge  in  this  stream  and  actually  cooked 
a  "mulligan"  on  the  shores  of  the  steel-blue  Sea  of  Galilee.  I 


100 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


also  bathed  in  the  Dead  Sea,  where  I  found  it  difficult  to  swim 
by  reason  of  its  great  buoyancy  due  to  the  intensity  of  saline, 
combined  with  chloride  of  magnesium  and  chloride  of  calcium. 
Four  days  after  this  experience,  I  felt  the  disagreeable  oily  ef- 
fects of  this  Dead  Sea  bath  and  took  a  last  plunge  in  the  River 
Jordan  at  a  place  which  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  an  Arab  Sheik 
as  the  spot  where  Christ  was  baptized  by  John  and  where  the 
Israelites  crossed  a  dry  path  into  Canaan. 

Jericho,  whose  walls  fell  before  Joshua,  was  the  next  stop, 
and  passing  Bethany,  where  Mary  and  Martha  lived  and  the  Inn 
of  the  Good  Samaritan,  I  wound  round  the  Mount  of  Olives  and 
down  thru  the  Valley  of  the  Brook  Kedron,  and  again  entered 
Jerusalem  by  the  Gate  of  the  Tribes. 

On  this  trip  I  was  clad  in  pith  helmet,  khaki  trousers  and  a 
flannel  shirt  tucked  up  to  the  elbow  and  open  over  the  chest,  all 
of  which  garments  I  bummed  of  an  English  tourist  at  Alex- 
andria. Certain  of  the  routes  mentioned  were  infested  with 
thieves  and  robbers  and  between  Jerusalem  and  Jericho  I  was 
held  up  and  relieved  of  what  shekels  I  had,  but  they  failed  to 
find  the  store  of  morphine.  Invariably  when  night  approached 
I  slept  beneath  the  wide  and  open  sky  in  the  cool  night  air  gazing 
at  the  quiet,  lucent  heavens.  Notwithstanding  that  it  is  all 
backsheesh  thru  this  country,  I  used  my  wits  and  got  by  Be- 
douins, dragomen,  sheiks,  Arab  guards  and  the  police.  And 
many  times  I  had  hurled  at  me  the  stock  exlamation  "hadji," 
meaning  pilgrim,  and  in  answer  to  guides  and  beggars,  black- 
mailers and  supposed  thieves,  I  mumbled  "no  sabe"  and 
passed  on. 

I  traveled  over  the  same  route  from  Jerusalem  to  Jaffa  as 
before. 

From  this  port  the  Royal  Mail  steamer  "Dunvegan  Castle" 
was  in  readiness  for  sailing  to  Athens,  greatest  city  of  the  Levant 
(called  after  her  tutelary  deity,  Pallas  Athena),  and  other 
Mediterranean  ports  and  ultimately  to  the  British  Isles,  and  on 
this  vessel  I  grabbed  still  another  galley  service.  On  docking 
at  Athens,  I  went  ashore  with  the  intention  of  pursuing  the 
itinerary  to  Paris  overland  as  a  Yankee  bum. 

A  tide  of  associations  rushed  over  me  as  I  set  foot  upon 
Grecian  soil  and  over  all  predominated  thoughts  of  mythologies 
and  polytheisms,  meditations  of  Homer,  of  Pindar,  of  Solon,  of 
Socrates,  of  Pericles  and  Phocion. 

I  was  in  the  land  of  the  children  of  the  sun. 

In  pursuance  of  a  prurient  curiosity  I  toured  Pentelicus, 
Corinth  (altho'  non  homini  contingit  adire  Corinthum) ,  Delphi, 
the  sanctuary  of  Greece  and  chief  of  the  oracles  of  Imposture, 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


101 


the  Temple  of  Apollo,  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae,  the  Acropolis  of 
Pharsalus  and  the  Vale  of  Tempe,  the  Parthenon,  which  crowns 
the  Acropolis ;  the  Temple  of  the  Wingless  Victory,  the  Theatre 
of  Dionysius,  the  ruins  of  the  Odeon  and  the  Erectheum,  Mars 
Hill,  the  Pynx,  the  Prison  of  Socrates  and  the  Roman  baths,  and 
outside  the  city,  the  Arch  of  Hadrian,  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  and 
the  Stadium.  It  has  been  said  that  the  Greeks  are  not  to  be 
trusted,  intimated  by  the  aphorism,  "I  fear  the  Greeks  even 
when  they  bring  gifts ' ' ;  yet,  on  these  excursions  I  subsisted  on 
Grecian  hospitality,  the  pabulum  being  olives,  grapes,  figs, 
oranges,  honey  and  blackberries.  Among  the  trophy-covered 
hills  thru  Greece  I  reached  valleys,  spots  of  singular  beauty  and 
seclusion,  blushing  with  flowers,  sheeted  with  olives  and  blossom- 
ing fruit  trees. 

Returning  to  Athens  the  prospect  of  availing  myself  of  an 
overland  peregrination  to  the  French  capital  was  shattered  by 
my  acceptance  of  a  lowly  shift  aboard  the  cockleshell ' 4  Calabria, ' ' 
sailing  for  the  turquoise  canopy  of  Naples,  over  the  blue  and 
glittering  Mediterranean. 

At  Naples,  population  700,000,  reputed  to  be  the  dirtiest 
city  in  the  world,  I  sampled  the  morphia  of  the  continent.  This 
consists  of  a  preparation  of  the  drug  done  up  in  little  cardboard 
cases,  divided  into  cells.  These  cells,  which  were  lined  with 
cotton-wool,  each  held  a  small  glass  globule  filled  with  a  solution 
of  morphia,  sealed  at  one  end  with  wax.  They  are  safe  by  reason 
of  the  minimum  of  liability  to  infection.  After  seal  is  broken, 
the  hypodermic  is  filled  direct  from  these  globules.  They  are 
free  from  atropia  and  this  is  the  European  or  continental  style. 
I  encountered  no  impediments  in  the  purchase  of  the  drug  here, 
which  I  effected  at  the  Farmacia  Vanutelli  on  the  Via  Roma. 
The  chemist  was  only  concerned  in  my  un  donos.  In  the  Nea- 
politan city,  I  availed  myself  of  a  tour  of  the  Toledo,  the  Villa 
Reale,  a  glimpse  of  Virgil 's  tomb  and  the  Catacombs ;  and  after- 
wards, in  a  one  hour's  ride  by  rail,  I  rambled  to  Herculaneum 
and  .to  Pompeii.  These  extravagances  culminated  in  reducing 
me  to  humbled  indigence,  but  as  I  still  had  with  me  480  grains 
of  morphine,  I  refused  to  tremble  in  this,  the  land  of  Garibaldi, 
Ariosto,  Petrarch  and  Solferino.  Along  the  route  from  Naples 
to  Pompeii,  the  scarlet  poppy  shone  in  every  field.  Along  the 
roadside  terraces  it  grows  amid  the  ripening  rye-stalks  forming 
a  beautiful  fringe  of  scarlet  and  gold.  Strawberries  lined  the 
route  which  were  two  inches  thru  and  as  big  as  the  largest  horse- 
chestnut.  I  had  sea  food  here,  such  as  shell  fish,  clams,  peri- 
winkles and  mussels  and  I  drank  Frascati  and  Montefiascone 
•vintages  until  my  pocket  book  was  empty.   The  latter  had  such 


102 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ethereal  fire  and  such  a  delicate,  flashing,  penetrating  fierceness, 
that  resistance  to  its  seductions  seemed  futile. 

Thru  some  of  the  monumental  plains  of  Italy  I  saw  flower- 
flamed  valleys  of  ravishing  scenery;  and  besides  filling  up  on 
the  Italian  vintages  I  had  a  perpetual  dietary  of  native  roots, 
herbs  and  limpid  brooks. 

The  steamer  ' '  Messina, ' '  a  lime-juicer  of  Naples,  brought  me 
to  Genoa,  the  single  mooring  being  at  Leghorn.  Genoa  is  called 
the  marble  city,  and  is  interesting  for  its  wonderful  old  palaces ; 
and  the  old  town  with  its  queer  narrow  streets  all  up  and  down 
hill,  with  always  a  view  of  the  sea  and  the  busy  port  at  the  end 
of  the  street.  I  professed  fealty  here  by  a  visit  to  the  palace  of 
the  Doges,  the  Monument  to  Columbus  and  the  Campo  Santo 
cemetery;  and  on  the  Via  Nuova,  I  glutted  my  disposition  to 
curiosity  by  a  passing  inspection  of  the  multiform,  velvet-eyed 
Genoese. 

From  Genoa  I  got  to  Marseilles  on  the  same  steamer.  This 
city  is  situated  on  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,  and  has  a  population  of 
550,000  and  from  here  I  actually  walked  the  provincial  roads  to 
Paris,  a  distance  of  350  miles,  passing  thru  Aries,  Tarascon, 
Avignon,  Nimes,  Montelimart,  Valence,  Tournure,  Vienne,  St. 
Etienne,  Lyons,  Charolles,  Macon,  Chalon  sur  Saone,  Dijon, 
Avallon,  Chatillon  sur  Seine,  Tonnere,  Troyes,  Melun  and  Ver- 
sailles. It  was  a  route  mostly  between  high  walls,  draped  in 
trailing  vines  and  pierced  with  mighty  gateways.  The  old  towers 
and  the  great  churches  seen  on  this  trip  filled  me  with  romantic 
impressions.  It  was  the  fall  of  the  year  and  the  vineyards  were 
in  full  swing.  The  vinetagers  were  busy  in  the  fields  around 
unloading  the  vines  of  their  purple  tribute  and  the  air  was  laden 
with  the  odor  of  over-ripened  grapes.  A  rich  succession  of  dells, 
crowded  with  the  olive,  the  berry  and  the  grape  in  their 
autumnal  dyes,  spread  out  before  me  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  in  a  land  whose  air  is  pure  as  crystal.  As  thirst  and 
hunger  are  the  true  secrets  of  luxury,  I  soaked  a  fulness  of 
Chambertin,  Volnay  and  Pommard.  I  passed  thru  towns  which 
belonged  to  the  mediaeval  epoch,  full  of  romance  and  story.  And 
as  every  person  is  accounted  for  in  France,  I  was  fortified  in 
brushes  with  the  gendarmerie  who  police  the  cantonments  by  an 
exhibition  of  a  passport  and  ship's  clearance.  I  was  subjected 
to  scrutiny  three  different  times  on  this  trip,  once  near  Charolles, 
another  time  at  Montelimart  and  lastly  at  Tonnere,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  these  and  my  voluble  tongue  in  the  parlez-vous 
Francais,  as  well  as  the  Angleesh,  it  is  quite  possible  that  I 
might  have  run  up  against  their  sabres.  But,  Ah,  sacre  bleu! 
upon  the  exhibition  of  these  documents,  I  thought  that  I  could 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


103 


hear  the  peas  rattling  in  the  stomachs  of  these  pelting  officers, 
as  they  shifted  about.  Had  these  myrmidons  of  the  peace  and 
security  of  the  Republic  seized  me,  an4  found  upon  my  person, 
securely  sewed  into  the  fabric,  a  hypodermic  syringe  and  about 
400  grains  of  mrophia,  I  might  have  done  penance  within  the 
pale  shades  of  a  French  prison. 

I  had  been  in  Paris  before  and  knew  the  city  from  the  Pere 
La  Chaise  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  from  St.  Denis  to  the  Jardin 
Des  Plantes,  so  that  when  I  entered  her  confines,  I  immediately 
repaired  to  the  American  Embassy.  At  the  Embassy  I  nego- 
tiated for  return  passage  and  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  that  I 
refused  to  capitulate  again  to  the  glamour  and  seductions  of 
Paris,  the  city  of  luxurious  vices,  that  fascinating  town  of  ex- 
travagance and  debauchery,  the  city  of  divine  paradoxes,  dog- 
matic materialism  and  mysticism  and  original  sin.  On  the  trip 
e  cross  I  leisurely  read  to  an  old  invalid,  who  paid  me  well  for 
this  service,  De  Balzac's  ' 'The  Wild  Ass's  Skin." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


POT  POURRI 


"Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 
Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf, 
Of  the  ravin 'd  salt  sea*  shark, 
Root  of  hemlock  digged  'i  the  dark; 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat  and  slips  of  yew, 
Silvered  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 
Nose  of  Turk  and  Tartar's  lips; 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Ditch  devoured  by  a  drab. 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab: 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron." 

— Macbeth. 


It  is  true  that  with  all  deductions  there  remains  a  great 
residuum  which  means  want  of  individual  effort,  conscious  weak- 
ness of  will  and  culpable  failure  of  character  when  the  sinner, 
like  Horace,  sees  and  applauds  the  higher  while  he  follows  the 
lower.  If  the  good  outweighs  the  bad,  well  and  good,  but  if  the 
evil  outweighs  the  good,  then  that  man  is  utterly  lost  and 
damned.  Human  nature  is  like  a  plant  and  in  the  garden  of  the 
world  natures  vary.  When  one  has  made  allowance  for  the  sins 
which  are  the  inevitable  product  of  early  environment,  for  the 
sins  which  are  due  to  clear  physical  causes  and  for  the  sins 
which  are  due  to  hereditary  and  inborn  taint,  the  total  of  active 
sin  is  greatly  reduced.  In  its  worst  forms  all  crime  is  the 
product  of  absolute  lunacy.  How  could  the  world  punish  the 
unfortunate  wretch  who  hatches  criminal  thoughts  behind  the 
slanting  brows  of  a  criminal  head?  The  man  of  science  has  but 
to  glance  at  the  cranium  to  predicate  the  crime.  It  is  not  outside 
science  or  natural  law  for  a  family  to  have  some  deformity  fre- 
quently reappearing,  such  as  one  eyebrow  higher  than  the  other 
or  one  ear  bigger  than  the  other,  or  some  such  hereditary  dis- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


105 


proportion  in  the  features.  Shakespeare  has  said  it  in  these 
lines : 

"So  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men, 
That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them, 
As,  in  their  birth — wherein  they  are  not  guilty, 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin — 
By  the  oergrowth  of  some  complexion, 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason, 
Or  by  some  habit  that  too  much  o'er-leavens, 
The  form  of  plausive  manners,  that  these  men, 
Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect, 
Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  star — 
Their  virtues  else — be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 
As  infimite  as  man  may  undergo — 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  faidt  the  dram  of  eale 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  of  a  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal." 


Strictly  so  called  there  are  no  pains  as  a  sequelae  of  opium 
eating,  altho'  Mr.  DeQuincy  in  his  "Confessions"  uses  the  terms, 
"pains  of  opium,"  "pleasures  of  opium."  Pleasure  and  pain 
are  sisters.  Exemplum  gratia  there  are  no  pains  such  as  proceed 
from  gunshot  wounds  or  from  incisions  in  the  corporal  tissues, 
rheumatism,  neuralgia,  toothache,  earache  or  the  separation,  of 
parts  by  violence  or  some  certain  derangements  of  the  functions. 
On  the  withdrawal  of  the  dope  there  proceeds  a  war  of  the 
nerves — an  eternal  craving,  bringing  about  uneasiness  of  mind, 
mental  distress,  disquietude  and  anxiety.  There  is  ennui,  mental 
languor,  tedium  vitae,  nervous  distraction,  physical  flightiness, 
intellectual  torpor.  It  is  restlessness  in  the  highest  degree,  rest- 
lessness in  the  direst  degree.  There  is  an  incapacity  to  mental 
concentration,  a  collapse  of  physical  energies.  One  labors  under 
the  thumbscrew  of  obsession  and  fits  of  pandiculation  are 
frantically  conspicuous.  The  whole  is  a  subtle  and  indescribable 
malaise.  It  is  neither  nausea,  chills  and  fever  nor  acute  pain. 
It  is  more  horrible  than  these.  It  is  hideous  fatigue — a  sweating, 
nervous  irritability,  horrid  chill,  a  damp  nervousness,  a  drilling 
in  the  arms  and  legs.  One  is  like  a  marionette  strung  on  wire. 
When  in  the  throes  of  lustful  nerves,  one  pours  out  the  sweat  of 
anguish.  Pain  signifies  punishment.  I  can  therefore  assign  no 
reason  in  denominating  them  pains  unless  it  is  to  preserve  the 
alliteration  on  the  P. 


In  medical  parlance  there  is  what  is  termed  "shotgun  pre- 


106 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


scription."  This  consists  of  a  little  bit  of  everything  in  it  for 
every  ailment.  It  is  a  hit  or  miss,  kill  or  cure  compound.  If  one 
ingredient  misses,  the  other  hits  and  if  the  whole  misses  and 
none  hit,  it  usually  culminates  in  work  for  the  undertaker.  I 
once  had  prescribed  for  mea"  shotgun  prescription ' '  containing 
no  less  than  six  different  substances  for  the  purpose  of  allaying 
the  tedium  and  other  ravages  due  to  a  protracted  debauch  in 
wine.  These  substances  were  morphine,  chloral  hydrate,  codeine, 
bromide  of  potassium,  digitalis  and  lactopeptone.  I  followed  out 
its  seductions  from  downright  wantonness  and  the  reason  that 
it  did  not  finally  prepare  me  for  the  morgue  should  not  be  con- 
sidered as  a  recommendation  favoring  the  doctor,  as  I  ascertained 
too  late  that  it  was  prescribed  by  a  medical  man  whose  standing 
in  the  community  was  such  that  whenever  an  inquiry  was  made 
relative  to  his  scientific  capacity  the  reply  invariably  was :  1 '  Oh, 
that  abortion  of  a  pill-box ;  he  couldn 't  cure  a  ham. ' ' 


In  the  indiscriminate  use  of  the  hypodermic  needle,  fiends 
become  careless.  In  forlorn  straits,  I  have  used  water  from  stag- 
nant pools,  standing  water  from  puddles  after  a  rainfall  and 
from  muddy  streams.  I  cooked  dope  in  debris,  such  as  dis- 
carded fruit  cans,  without  the  ceremony  of  subjecting  them  to 
lavatory  exercises.  And  I  recall  an  instance  where  a  doctor  to 
whom  I  applied  for  relief,  unscrewed  the  case  of  his  watch  and 
in  this  wise  he  prepared  the  solution.  To  doctors  to  whom  I 
applied  to  relieve  my  distress  on  occasions  I  have  used  hypo- 
dermics absolutely  careless  about  any  considerations  that  these 
same  instruments  might  have  been  utilized  in  puncturing  the 
tissues  of  infected  patients  or  pierced  the  inert  muscles  of  a 
cadaver.  In  my  haste  engendered  by  nerve  bankruptcy  I  have 
broken  needles  which  by  the  most  arduous  and  painstaking  shifts 
could  not  be  extricated,  and  which  ultimately  came  out  in  other 
parts  of  my  body.  I  recall  one,  that,  primarily  lost  in  the  tissues 
of  the  right  arm,  popped  out  from  the  calf  of  the  right  leg. 
This  while  listlessly  languishing  upon  an  ottoman  and  wrapped 
in  a  robe  de  chambre  in  my  bed  chamber,  I  heard  a  faint  thud 
upon  the  bare  floor  and  found  thereon  the  broken  end  of  a 
needle  that  had  buried  itself  beyond  immediate  reclamation  in 
the  animal  framework  months  before.  I  recall  an  instance  in 
Norfolk,  Virginia,  where  I  used  a  needle  that  had  been  used  in 
old  fashioned  medication,  furnished  me  by  a  physician  there 
upon  my  appeal  to  him.  It  looked  big  enough  and  strong  enough 
to  penetrate  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros,  and  it  made  a  hiatus  in 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL  107 


my  anatomy  sufficiently  cavernous  for  the  entrance  of  an  iron- 
grey  Missouri  mule. 


To  various  lapses  from  the  rules  of  action  prescribed  for 
moral  conduct  by  divine  or  human  laws,  I  add  the  crime  of  burg- 
lary. Technically  it  was  burglary,  but  there  having  been  the 
absence  of  the  essential  element  of  criminal  intent  in  its  commis- 
sion, a  successful  prosecution  could  not  have  been  maintained. 
Burglary  is  accompanied  by  some  criminal  intent,  the  intent  to 
steal,  to  commit  murder  or  rape  or  other  public  offense.  In  the 
case  at  bar,  there  was  no  other  intent  than  the  gratification  of 
using  a  hypodermic  syringe.  This  was  the  very  head  and  front 
of  my  offending.  The  episode  occurred  in  a  deserted  village  in 
the  Sucker  state  on  a  sabbath  morning,  being  hors  de  combat 
relative  to  a  syringe.  I  therefore  burglarized  a  doctor's  office 
vi  et  armis  while  the  sober  citizens  and  like  as  not  the  doctor  him- 
self, were  gathered  in  spiritual  devotions  and  praising  the  Lord 
from  whom  all  blessings  flow. 

I  positively  declare  that  when  the  fever  is  on,  when  the  black 
reaction  comes,  when  a  fiend  needs  a  4 'shot,"  he  will  approach 
the  Holy  Throne  if  relief  could  be  obtained  there.  I  asseverate 
that  under  the  hotspur  of  want,  the  curb,  whip  and  bugbear  of 
the  law  has  no  terrors  for  him. 


In  dilemmas  for  the  use  of  a  hypodermic,  I  once  addressed 
myself  to  a  physician  in  St.  Cloud,  Minn.  With  urbane  affa- 
bility he  handed  me  the  much  coveted  tool  and  after  I  had  pre- 
pared an  ebullient  solution,  I  shot  one  syringeful  into  the  circu- 
lation of  the  arm.  I  drew  up  another  syringeful  and  was  about 
to  slam  this  in  also,  when  old  sawbones  exclaimed : 

1 1  You  can 't  kill  yourself  in  my  office ;  if  you  want  to  commit 
suicide,  jump  from  the  castle  walls." 

As  I  was  then  using  fifty  grains  per  day,  a  doctor's  smidgin 
would  only  be  homeopathic.  However,  I  got  a  sufficient  jolt  out 
of  the  single  barrel  to  nerve  me  up  in  advance  of  a  similar 
assault  on  another  croaker. 


I  do  not  profess  to  be  au  fait,  so  as  to  speak  with  decision 
about  the  colorless  prisms  known  as  hydrochloride  of  cocoaine,  as 
I  never  followed  out  the  seductions  of  the  drug  as  I  did  morphia, 
chloral,  hasheesh  and  others,  and  this  is  the  reason  that  I  am  here 
to  say  what  I  do  say  about  them.   I  used  enough  cocoaine,  how- 


108 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ever,  to  appreciate  the  sententious  reply  danced  out  by  a  cocoaine 
habitue  when  asked  how  he  felt  when  imprisoned  in  the  umbrage 
of  the  ' '  snow. ' '    Turning  to  his  jolt-head  questioner,  he  said : 

"Do  you  see  the  wires  strung  along  the  poles  ahead  of  us?" 

He  referred  to  a  web  of  telegraph  and  telephone  wires  a  half 
block  ahead  something  like  thirty  feet  from  the  ground. 

' '  Yes ;  what  about  them  ? ' ' 

''I  can  step  right  over  them." 


In  the  novitiate  stage  of  opium  addition  a  fiend  is  imbued 
with  the  sentiment  of  egoism.  He  feels  as  tho'  he  were  the 
human  flame  around  about  which  cluster  the  human  moths.  He 
grooms  himself  so  that  his  personal  locomotion  is  a  pins  and 
needles  one,  and  he  becomes  fastidious  to  an  absurd  degree  of 
coxcombry.  Under  the  spell  of  music  he  is  much  more  so;  and 
this  is  equally  true  whether  it  be  an  ancient  lullaby,  a  wild 
Irish  coronach  or  any  scurvy  tune,  the  twanging  a  stave  of  a 
religious  hymn,  the  Dead  March  in  Saul  at  a  funeral,  the  rendi- 
tion of  a  popular  air  from  the  masters,  such  as  the  Mad  Song 
from  Lucia,  or  the  Miserere  of  Allegro  or  that  which  flows  from 
a  squeaky  street  organ  in  a  ragtime  vein  of  melody,  or  any 
foozle  of  a  bray  that  starts  to  be  one  pitch  and  cracks  into 
another. 

This  is  a  monster  delusion,  for  in  the  estimation  of  those  who 
know  of  his  poison  slavery  he  is  despised,  and  those  who  are  not 
so  cognizant  are  not  so  porous  as  to  be  absorbed  in  contemplation 
of  him  over  the  most  indifferent  human  tadpole. 


It  could  not  be  reasonably  expected  that  a  drug  like  morphia, 
the  handmaiden  of  such  unspeakable  bliss  in  many  channels, 
would  not  have  its  disadvantages.  One  of  these  is  the  obstruction 
of  the  alimentary  canal.  The  peristaltic  region  is  hampered  by 
the  astringency  of  opium,  and  this  is  more  pronounced  in  the 
neophyte  stage  of  addiction.  It  is  therefore  inconvenient  to 
have  to  dose  oneself  with  pills  to  sluice  the  alimentary  tract  re- 
peatedly.  The  other  disadvantage  is  retention  of  the  urine. 


While  the  fiend  is  insulated  in  the  tyranny  of  opium  there  is 
a  marked  declension  in  the  amative  economy.    The  drug  has  a 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL  109 


tendency  to  store  up  the  secretions.  King  Priapus  has  abdicated 
his  throne  and  in  this  wise  the  drug  is  an  anti-aphrodisiac. 


Opium  is  a  sinisterly  benevolent  medicine  when  it  can  meta- 
morphose one  from  an  angry,  brutal  and  generally  offensive 
person  into  a  merry,  roystering  child,  chirruping  at  fanciful 
bagatelles.  These  are  luminous  moments  and  the  1  'snowbird"  is 
in  harmony  with  life,  has  no  conceptions  of  the  elements  of  time 
and  space. 


The  drug  habit  is  a  disease  pure  and  simple.  That  the  terms 
drug  habit  or  drug  fiend  have  been  so  generally  applied,  and  so 
commonly  accepted  as  descriptive  of  those  afflicted  with  this 
condition  is  conclusive  proof  of  general  scientific  neglect  of  it, 
of  past  apathy  and  indifference  toward  it  and  of  ignorance  con- 
cerning it. 

That  it  is  fundamentally  a  physical  disease  condition,  pre- 
senting definite  and  constant  clinical  symptoms  and  signs  and 
invariable  and  characteristic  physical  phenomena  and  that  it  has 
associated  with  it — and  especially  with  its  unskilled  handling — 
some  of  the  most  agonizing  physical  suffering  known  to  hu- 
manity, is  now  a  matter  of  established  record  and  proof. 

That  its  physical  symptomatology  and  phenomena  are  mani- 
fested in  infants  newly  born  of  addicted  mothers  and  that  many 
of  these  infants  die  unless  opiate  is  administered  to  them,  is  a 
well-known  fact  among  those  who  have  made  open-minded  study 
of  and  research  into  this  condition. 

That  the  physical  signs  and  symptomatology  and  phenomena 
of  body-need  for  opiate  drug  can  be  easily  and  invariably  demon- 
strated upon  animals  purposely  addicted  in  the  laboratory  and 
then  deprived  of  the  drug,  and  that  the  blood  serum  of  these 
addicted  animals  suffering  from  opiate  deprivation  when  in- 
jected into  animals  who  have  never  been  given  opiate,  produce 
the  same  symptomatology  and  phenomena  are  matters  of  com- 
petent observation  and  authoritative  record. 

That  a  considerable  proportion,  if  not  a  considerable  majority 
of  opiate  addicts  contracted  their  addiction  disease  purely  thru 
prolonged  constant  opiate  medication,  under  conditions  where 
they  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  administration  of  the 
opiate  and  did  not  even  know  what  they  were  getting,  must  be 
recognized  and  accepted  fact. 

That  there  is  no  class  characteristic  of  narcotic  addicts,  but 
that  the  condition  exists  far  more  among  the  honest  and  worthy 


110 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  self-supporting  members  of  society  than  it  does  in  the  so 
called  "under-world"  is  now  a  matter  of  easily  corroborated 
record.  The  narcotic  addict  is  found  in  every  walk  of  life,  the 
minister  and  the  judge,  the  physician,  the  business  man,  the 
clerk,  the  laborer ;  no  class  or  occupation  is  without  its  members 
suffering  from  narcotic  addiction  disease. 

The  most  urgent  problem  of  the  present  narcotic  situation  is 
the  one  most  sadly  neglected  in  the  past,  and  only  recently  be- 
ginning to  be  appreciated.  It  is  the  problem  of  securing  intelli- 
gent, competent,  and  humane  advice  and  treatment  faced  by  the 
addict  himself. 

The  one  thing  that  the  average  narcotic  addict  wants  is  to  be 
helped  and  cured.  The  idea  that  he  does  not  want  to  be  cured 
arises  largely  from  his  hesitation  to  submit  himself  to  incarcera- 
tion under  legal  commitment  to  institutions  of  whose  results  he 
has  either  had  previous  experience  himself  or  has  been  warned 
away  from  by  the  experience  of  others.  The  army  of  addicts  has 
increased  since  prohibition,  and  this  great  mass  of  addicts  need 
something  done  for  them.  They  are  clinical  problems  of  internal 
medicine,  victims  of  a  definite  disease,  controllable  and  ar- 
restable. 


In  the  preparaton  of  an  ebullition  of  morphia  in  a  spoon,  it 
sometimes  happened  that  the  solution  was  too  copious  to  inject 
at  a  single  sitting,  so  much  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  consign  the 
residue  to  a  glass  receptacle  containing  absorbent  cotton  with 
the  intention  of  using  it  thereafter.  By  this  means  there  ac- 
cumulated a  quantity  of  dope  which  volatilized  in  a  degree  and 
became  desiccated  on  the  cotton. 

A  fellow  hophead  called  one  day  in  dismal  need  of  a  "  shot. ' ' 
A  twitching  sensation  was  shaking  him  as  a  storm  shakes  dry 
leaves,  and  I  suggested  that  he  accommodate  himself  from  this 
receptacle.  He  took  one  syringeful,  but  before  he  had  time  to 
draw  up  another,  he  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  spasm  of  syncope.  A 
single  jolt  of  this  aqua  fortis  distillment  was  productive  of  too 
strong  a  "kick"  and  afterwards  he  was  always  guarded  about 
sampling  cooked  up  dope. 


No  less  than  thirteen  (ominous  number)  abscesses  formed  on 
my  arms  and  legs  within  a  short  period.  This  was  traceable  to 
the  indiscriminate  use  of  "guns"  of  a  raft  of  surgeons  which 
propagated  the  hokey-pokey  in  the  blood  from  septic  poisoning. 


Reduced  to  forlorn  expedients  I  have  at  several  times  used  a 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


111 


common  eye  dropper  by  affixing  a  hypodermic  needle  to  its 
vitreous  apex  and  thus  squirted  the  lethargic  juice  into  the 
sanguinary  flow.  But  the  most  desperate  shift  occurred  on 
board  ship  en  tour  from  Alexandria,  Egypt,  to  Port  Said,  on 
the  Mediterranean,  when  I  improvised  a  rubber  bulb  from  the 
rubber  of  ship's  boots.  I  tightened  this  to  the  glassy  part 
with  packthread,  fastening  the  needle  to  the  other  end.  This 
contrivance  catapulted  the  morphine  gravy  with  ambidextrous 
facility. 


Resolutions  to  renounce  opium  after  habit  formed,  are  like 
vows  written  in  water;  they  are  as  straws  to  the  fire  in  the 
blood;  they  are  as  false  as  dicer's  oaths;  they  are  as  inconstant 
as  the  moon.  As  well  might  one  try  to  wound  the  intrenchant 
air  with  the  keenest  blade;  as  well  try  to  hold  water  in  a  sieve, 
swallow  a  locomotive,  fatten  a  greyhound,  kindle  a  fire  with 
icicles,  stay  the  ocean's  tide  with  a  shell  or  freeze  the  sun. 


Chloral  hydrate,  formerly  chloral,  is  a  colorless,  transparent 
and  very  volatile  crystal  or  white  crusts  of  aromatic  penetrating 
odor  and  bitterish,  caustic  taste.  Its  pleasurable  sensations  are 
like  spread  poppies,  which  when  seized,  shed  their  bloom.  What 
it  spends  in  fleeting  volatility  it  more  than  compensates  in  the 
riot  of  its  virtues. 


The  tawny,  brown  colored  opium  comes  principally  from  the 
marts  of  China,  the  West  Indies  and  Turkey.  On  the  shores  of 
the  Persian  Gulf  the  petals  of  the  poppy  are  purple,  pink  and 
white.  The  choicest  grade  of  opium  is  the  Li  Yuen  of  China 
and  the  Turkish  name  for  opium  is  Madjoon. 


Hasheesh  is  obtained  by  boiling  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  the 
female  plant  Cannabis  Saliva  with  fresh  butter.  It  is  grown  in 
the  East  Indies  and  gathered  while  the  fruit  is  yet  undeveloped, 
and  while  it  is  carrying  the  whole  of  its  natural  resin.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  potential  nerve  quiescents  in  the  entire  materia 
medica.  It  produces  dreamy  indolence  in  the  ascendant  scale. 
The  Mohammedan  princes,  the  peoples  of  West  and  South  Africa 
and  in  the  Malay  Archipelago  loll  in  hammocks  and  in  canapes 
and  dream  life  away  under  its  soothing  influence.  On  the 
female  blossoms  of  Indian  hemp,  glands  are  found  holding  a 
narcotic,  sticky,  bitter-tasting  substance,  and  this  is  the  active 


112 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


element  of  hasheesh.  Hasheesh  habitues  may  become  danger- 
ously  violent  in  the  intermediary  stage  before  complete  stupe- 
faction sets  in. 


' 1  Happy  Dust ' '  is  the  tenderloin  term  for  heroin,  a  compara- 
tively new  derivative  of  morphia.  It  is  morphia  treated  with 
acetic  acid  and  the  continual  use  of  it  for  a  few  years  leads  to 
physical  collapse  and  death.  When  decline  comes,  there  is  an 
amazing  reduction  in  flesh.  It  is  strange  that  the  deadliest  of 
all  habits  is  the  simplest- — no  hypodermic,  no  pipe,  no  parapher- 
nalia of  any  kind.  It  is  used  as  a  powder  by  sniffing  and  gives 
immediate  sensation.  Fashionable  women  crush  a  tablet  or  two 
in  a  napkin  and  hold  this  to  the  face  as  tho'  breathing  the  most 
exquisite  perfume.  It  is  stronger  than  either  morphine  or  gum 
opium  and  while  under  its  influence  one  is  morally,  physically 
and  mentally  irresponsible.  Snuffing  or  sniffing  these  powdered 
tablets  destroys  the  bones  in  the  nose  thru  shrinkage  of  the 
blood  vessels,  as  well  as  undermines  the  nervous  system  and 
causes  the  brain  to  totter.  It  is  a  singularly  new  substance, 
having  been  known  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  century,  while  opium 
itself  has  been  known  for  more  than  two  thousand  years.  Sev- 
enty per  cent  of  drug  users  now  use  heroin,  since  the  passage  of 
the  Harrison  anti-drug  measure.  It  is  a  white,  colorless,  neutral 
powder  and  bitter  in  taste.  Being  a  tenderloin  preparation, 
assiduous  care  is  expended  in  its  output,  being  housed  in  small 
brown  glass  globules  stoppered  with  paraffined  corks  and  cotton 
stuffed  in  the  neck  thereof.  Next  to  this  latter  are  the  glistening 
white  tablets,  bitter  with  horrible  poison — heroin  hydrochloride. 


The  continuous  use  of  cocaine  will  produce  amnesia  to  an 
alarming  degree,  arising  from  its  action  directly  upon  the  men- 
tality, and  finally  the  memory  advances  to  a  condition  of  abso- 
lute abeyance. 


Not  long  ago  a  symposium  was  held  by  a  medical  journal  to 
determine  by  a  vote  among  professional  men  the  five  most  re- 
liable drugs  used  in  medicine.  Those  that  got  the  most  votes 
were  in  their  order :    Opium,  mercury,  quinine,  digitalis,  iodine. 

Four  out  of  the  five  have  advanced  in  price — iodine  alone 
remains  at  the  old  level.  To  follow  the  others  and  see  what  has 
happened  to  them,  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  of  ascertaining  drug* 
conditions. 

Opium  is  now  selling  for  eleven  dollars  a  pound,  the  highest 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


113 


price  in  fifty  years.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  it  was  about 
six  dollars  and  fifty  cents.  The  causes  are  somewhat  compli- 
cated. There  is  a  crop  shortage  in  Turkey,  hostilities  held  up 
shipments  of  the  crude  gum  and  our  new  federal  law  to  prevent 
misuse  of  narcotics,  cutting  down  consumption,  led  to  hesitation 
in  ordering  supplies.  Morphine  and  codeine,  narcotics  derived 
from  opium,  was  used  to  allay  suffering  in  the  army  hospitals 
during  the  late  world's  war.  The  United  States  is  doing  a  good 
business  in  morphine  so  far  as  exportation  is  concerned,  which 
has  advanced  twenty-five  per  cent. 


The  greatest  anodynes  are  hemlock,  henbane,  chloroform  and 
opium,  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  opium.  It  is  the  anodyne 
de  luxe.    The  others  are  mere  boot  lickers  in  comparison. 


The  most  potent  counter  agent  to  and  tranquillizer  of  nervous 
irritability  and  the  shocking  evil  of  tedium  vitae,  which  latter 
includes  within  its  scope,  languor,  ennui  and  listlessness,  is 
opium.  When  one  becomes  indifferent  to  the  ordinary  pleasures 
of  life  thru  luxury  or  the  excessive  indulgence  in  frivolous  or 
sensual  enjoyments,  a  "shot"  of  morphine  makes  the  whole 
world  look  brighter  and  the  drooping  animal  energies  are  elec- 
trified thereby. 


'  A  morphine  fiend  has  no  pains,  is  immune  from  colds  and  a 
full  jolt  of  it  during  a  snowstorm  in  the  very  heart  of  winter, 
is  equivalent  to  the  warmest  overcoat. 


I  entertain  a  sort  of  a  bromidic  opinion  that  morphine  when 
used  moderately  by  one  in  the  incipient  stage  of  consumption, 
will  ward  off,  all  other  things  being  equal,  any  succeeding  stage 
of  and  finally  put  to  rout,  the  alarming  national  calamity  of 
pulmonary  tuberculosis,  popularly  termed  the  Great  "White 
Plague. 


In  nomadic  travel  I  met  many  medical  men  who  were  slaves 
to  morphia.  In  Dyersburg,  Tenn.,  I  met  one  whose  face  of  chalk 
and  general  appearance  suggested  to  me  the  apothecary  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  His  looks  were  meagre;  famine  was  in  his 
cheeks;  need  and  oppression  stared  in  his  eyes;  contempt  and 
beggary  hung  upon  his  back.    He  had  pawned  his  library  and 


114 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


hawked  his  instruments  for  the  stuff.  Another  in  Dubuque, 
Iowa,  whose  visage  was  as  pallid  as  the  white  petals  of  the  lotos 
lily,  and  advanced  in  addiction  as  far  as  the  other,  yet  in  ap- 
parent affluence,  was  still  practicing  his  profession  in  an  elab- 
orate suite  of  offices.  So  abject  was  the  former,  that  I  was  con- 
strained to  oblige  him  by  a  division  of  the  morphine  I  then  had, 
to  divert  the  wolf  from  his  door;  and  so  prosperous  was  the 
other  that  I  left  town  with  new  needles,  a  comfortable  quantum 
of  dope  and  some  substantial  pezzos  with  which  to  sled  the  tor- 
tuous labyrinths  and  discursive  paths  of  life. 


There  is  an  unwritten  tongue  among  dope  fiends,  hopheads 
and  snowbirds.  C  is  for  cocoaine,  M  is  for  morphine.  Many 
times  I  have  heard  the  retort :  "I  have  no  C  but  plenty  of  M. " 
The  fellow  had  a  sufficiency  of  the  ease  juice;  he  was  seeking 
the  dippy  dust. 


Chloral  hydrate  is  almost  upon  the  same  plane  as  cocaine,  so 
far  as  its  effects  upon  the  citadel  of  mentality  are  concerned. 
Both  are  liable  after  continuous  use  to  produce  amnesia,  and 
there  is  a  possibility  that  aphasia  would  result.  Since  my  own 
mind  has  become  clarified  after  successful  treatment  for  the 
habit  of  chronic  addiction  to  chloral,  I  recall  instances  in  my 
addresses  to  juries  while  I  used  it,  where  I  had  forgotten  at  the 
time  of  presentation  to  dilate  upon  certain  points,  facts  which 
were  essentially  important  to  force  verdicts  and  compatible  with 
the  issues  raised  by  the  pleadings  and  adduced  by  the  testimony. 
I  have  no  cause  for  regret,  however,  as  in  every  case  I  prevailed, 
and  I  can  only  account  for  such  results  upon  the  hypothesis  that 
what  I  forgot  the  jury  remembered. 


I  underwent  treatment  as  a  dope  fiend  eight  different  times, 
and  out  of  these  eight  treatments,  I  emerged  unqualifiedly  cured 
of  the  habit  and  freed  from  the  servitude  of  opium.  In  these 
instances,  I  was  either  behind  the  bars  or  restrained  in  some 
similar  manner  equivalent  to  barred  windows  and  doors.  After 
these  eight  treatments,  I  fell  no  less  than  seven  times  to  the 
assaults  of  temptation.  The  speediest  cure  was  one  week  by 
the  hyoscine  route,  during  which  week  I  was  restrained  by 
barred  windows  and  doors  in  a  private  sanitarium.  After  release 
at  the  expiration  of  this  time,  I  deliberately  inaugurated  a 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


115 


drunken  debauch  in  order  to  drive  away  temptation,  and  I  con- 
tinued in  this  carousal  until  sent  willy  nilly  to  a  state  hospital, 
a  confirmed  inebriate  suffering  from  the  ravages  of  mania  a 
potu. 


With  courage  screwed  to  the  sticking  point,  and  with  firm- 
ness as  strong  as  a  monk's  vow,  I  have  entered  hospitals  for  the 
purpose  of  being  released  from  the  dominancy  of  opium.  I  nur- 
tured in  my  secret  thoughts  a  stern  and  desperate  resolution  that 
I  would  submit  no  longer  to  the  enslavement  of  morphia.  In 
advance  thereof  I  always  made  preparation  for  probable  eventu- 
alities ;  and  in  this  connection,  I  had  especially  in  mind  the  con- 
tingency that  under  a  rigorous  regulation  of  dosage,  I  would 
necessarily  suffer.  I  recall  an  instance  in  point  in  Kansas  City, 
Mo.  Knowing  that  my  attire  would  be  thoroly  searched  for  the 
stuff,  I  secreted  two  small  glass  phials  of  morphine  in  the  hair 
of  my  head  by  tying  these  to  tufts  of  hair,  one  phial  in  each 
armpit,  similarly  attached,  another  phial  tied  by  tiny  flesh 
colored  thread  to  the  toes  of  my  feet,  besides  other  phials  glued 
to  other  portions  of  my  anatomy.  In  addition  to  these  measures, 
I  cached  a  quantity  in  bottles  in  close  vicinage  to  the  hospital,  so 
that  they  could  be  readily  reached  in  case  of  lustful  nerves.  My 
sensibilities  were  severely  shattered  that  same  evening,  when  one 
of  these  phials  dropped  out  of  position  while  I  indulged  in  custo- 
mary ablutions  on  admission  thereto.  Upon  this  discovery  by 
the  hospital  attendant,  a  systematic  search  was  instigated,  and 
the  whole  cargo  was  made  manifest.  I  "blew"  the  place  on  the 
following  morning.  Similar  happenings  marked  my  manoeuvers 
in  a  score  of  other  cities. 


A  convention  of  hopheads  was  assembled  in  the  jungles  ad- 
jacent to  a  certain  town  some  years  ago  during  my  captivity  to 
the  blandishments  of  morphia,  all  of  the  company  being  lit  up 
like  a  Catholic  cathedral  on  Lammas  Night.  A  stray  tomcat  dis- 
turbed the  solemnity  of  the  proceedings,  and  being  duly  cap- 
tured, the  gang  injected  a  "shot"  of  morphine  and  cocaine 
blended  into  him.  When  released,  he  executed  a  pirouette  and 
in  one  crazy  bound  shot  thru  the  bulrushes  like  a  bolt  of  streaked 
lightning,  or  a  frightened  razor  back  shoat  thru  a  field  of 
ripened  alfalfa. 


With  nerveless  fingers  I  have  mixed  dope  and  have  admin- 
istered hypodermic  shots,  while  the  train  rambled  as  high  as 


116 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


seventy  miles  an  hour,  without  the  snapping  of  a  needle  or  the 
puncture  of  a  blood  vessel. 


In  the  company  of  a  bevy  of  wine  bums  and  barrel  house 
stiffs,  I  once  went  in  swimming  in  a  glassy  pool.  As  I  stripped 
off  my  clothing  and  exposed  the  epidermis,  one  of  the  bums  on 
seeing  the  blue  and  purple  spots  thereon,  shouted  to  the  others : 

"ECCE  HOMO.  Say,  bos,  this  is  the  tattooed  man  from  the 
Barnum  &  Bailey  circus!" 

I  stood  revealed  in  the  common  integument — the  one  im- 
mutable fashion  of  nature.  I  was  mottled  and  pictured  on  legs 
and  arms,  and  from  waist  upwards  in  the  most  bewildering 
manner,  all  in  blue  and  purple  tints.  There  were  more  pictures 
on  me  than  there  are  on  an  astrologer's  celestial  globe,  all  due  to 
the  pricking  of  the  hypodermic  needle. 


There  are  moments  that  to  the  sober  eye  of  reason,  the  world 
of  our  sad  humanity  may  assume  the  semblance  of  a  hell.  These 
movements  are  truly  during  the  hyoscine  cure  for  narcotism  or 
alcohol,  or  any  other  trouble  where  hyoscine  is  resorted  to  as  a 
therapeutic  instrumentality. 


Periodic  sneezing  is  one  of  the  aftermaths  denoting  the  wane 
of  the  drug's  virtues  in  the  system.  "When  a  fiend  goes  beyond 
the  time  when  he  should  have  shot  himself,  he  will  invariably  be 
subjected  to  fits  of  pandiculation.  I  well  remember  the  episode 
when  a  fiend  entered  the  office  of  a  strange  doctor,  and,  getting 
down  on  his  marrow  bones,  informed  the  doctor  that  he  was  in 
need  of  a  "shot."  He  told  the  doctor  that  he  was  at  that  very 
time  suffering  the  tortures  of  Hades.  He  had.  the  pasty  skin, 
the  vacant  eye,  the  nervous  quiver  of  the  muscles,  as  tho'  every 
organ  and  every  nerve  were  crying  out  for  the  poison. 

' '  Let  me  hear  you  sneeze  ! ' '  said  Sawbones. 

The  geezer  coudn't  execute  this  trick,  but  he  returned  in  a 
few  minutes  immediately  succeeding  the  self-administration  of 
a  sniff  of  cayenne  pepper,  convulsed  by  pandiculation,  and  the 
croaker,  grasping  the  situation  at  once,  threw  a  ' 1  shot ' '  into  him 
without  any  further  parlez-vous. 


Two  occasions  presented  themselves  in  the  days  of  my  chronic 
slavery  to  dope,  wherein  I  was  prevented  from  using  the  hypo- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


117 


dermic  needle,  both  of  these  occasions  being  while  I  was  aboard 
ship  during  terrific  storms  at  sea — once  on  a  trip  from  New 
Orleans,  La.,  to  South  Africa  and  at  another  time  on  the  Pacific 
between  Seattle,  Wash.,  and  San  Francisco,  Calif.  It  was  abso- 
lutely impossible,  even  amidships,  and  on  the  orlop  deck,  to 
manipulate  the  steel  sting.  The  only  alternative  was  adminis- 
tration per  mese. 


I  have  hypodermically  injected  morphine  into  my  tissues  in 
places  darker  than  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta,  while  the  freight 
rambled  at  sixty  miles  an  hour,  as  successfully  as  under  the 
enfilade  of  a  spotlight  in  the  quiet  of  one's  private  chamber. 


A  morphine  hophead  was  carried  into  the  hospital  at  Kansas 
City,  Mo.,  with  abscesses  on  his  body  so  close  together  that  it 
puzzled  the  doctors  to  locate  a  region  on  his  epidermis  wherein 
to  pierce  the  needle.  These  abscesses  suppurated  and  opened  to 
that  extent  that  the  stench  from  the  loathsome  putrescence  was 
positively  unbearable,  and  all  the  formaldehyde,  chlorine  and 
even  perfumes  of  Arabia  would  not  sweeten  it.  He  was  reveling 
in  the  last  stages  of  chronic  addiction,  and  was  domiciled  in  an 
isolated  detention  tent  where  he  soon  farewelled  to  life,  full  of 
the  great  elixir  of  resurrection. 


A  status  of  consummate  bliss,  heavenly  happiness  and  in- 
effable ease  is  attainable  by  first  taking  a  "shot"  of  morphine, 
then  reclining  on  a  berth  as  near  to  the  extreme  port  or  starboard 
side  of  the  vessel  as  one  can  get  when  the  1 1  tramp ' '  is  rolling  on 
the  oceanic  swell,  and  indulge  one's  morbid  appetite  when  the 
lights,  sounds,  odors  and  surroundings  are  all  arranged  as  to 
intensify  and  enhance  the  effects  of  this  wonderful  narcotic  and 
submit  to  the  combined  assaults  of  the  god  of  sleep  and  the  god 
of  dreams.  It  is  an  Elysium  of  bliss,  and  one  feels  the  exhilar- 
ating effects  of  the  drug  slowly  stealing  over  him.  Sleeping 
there  as  one  etherized,  floating  off  buoyantly  into  space  over 
hitherto  unimagined  worlds,  a  dizzy  procession  passing  in  gor- 
geous review  before  the  throbbing  eyes  and  simultaneously  drink- 
ing in  thru  the  nostrils  faint  whiffs  of  pungent  salt  air,  saturated 
with  the  penetrating  odor  of  iodine.  One  thus  ensconced,  might 
dream  of  old  Neptune  with  his  trident,  of  mermaids,  of  whales 
and  porpoises  and  dolphins  and  deep  sea  specimens  of  the  inter- 
pelagic  depths.   One  might  dream  that  he  was  in  a  region  where 


118 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


unseen  fountains  perpetually  played  and  fairy  guitars  struck 
by  invisible  fingers  sent  forth  an  eternal  harmony.  It  is  a  sleep 
like  the  princess  in  the  fairy  tale  who  slept  for  a  hundred 
years.  It  is  a  sleep,  not  on  a  bed  of  roses,  but  rather  on  a  bed 
of  somnolent  poppies. 


Out  of  seven  patients  undergoing  treatment  for  the  morphine 
habit  under  the  abominable  56-hour  Lambert  cure,  I  beheld  four 
of  these  taken  out  of  the  locus  penitentiae  on  stretchers  feet  first. 
These  were  instances  demonstrating  the  imprudence  of  an  abrupt 
withdrawal  of  the  dope  in  the  exercise  of  this  system  of  thera- 
peutics. This  is  one  of  the  many  episodes  wherein  I  noted  fiends, 
poor  weak  things,  fall  by  the  wayside,  victims  swept  down  like 
defenseless  pedestrians  before  cavalry  or  otherwise  gathered  in 
by  the  sexton  in  my  doping  days. 


Absinthe  is  a  sedative.  It  is  the  common  wormwood  plant 
(Artemisia  Absinthium)  having  a  bitter,  nauseous  taste.  It  is 
called  the  Fairy  with  the  Green  Eyes.  It  is  fatal  to  worms, 
hence  the  name.  Nature  has  made  the  brain  so  delicate  and  the 
spirit  so  volatile,  that  its  quality  and  comprehension  vanish  at 
its  touch.  Commercially,  absinthe  is  a  cordial  of  eau  de  vie 
(brandy),  flavored  with  wormwood.  Altho'  green  in  color  it  is 
not  a  product  of  Ireland,  but  a  syllabub  of  Paris. 


As  a  sedative  to  allay  the  tedium  of  alcoholic  debauchery, 
bromidia  ranks  next  to  morphia.  This  may  readily  be  deduced 
from  a  consideration  of  its  component  parts,  viz.,  bromide  of 
potassium,  chloral  hydrate  and  cannabis  indica. 


At  the  time  of  the  earthquake  and  fire  in  San  Francisco, 
April  18th,  1906,  there  were  over  two  thousand  dopeheads  in  that 
city,  the  great  majority  of  which  number  was  temporarily  quar- 
tered at  the  Presidio,  pending  the  arrival  of  dope  from  other 
parts.  Some  of  the  most  agonizing  suffering  known  to  humanity 
stalked  into  the  ranks  of  this  army  by  reason  of  the  dearth  of  the 
drug,  and  here  the  fiends  remained,  willy  nilly,  until  a  shipment 
arrived  from  Los  Angeles  to  quiet  these  restless  and  distressed 
spirits.  There  was  wholesale  pilfering  among  these  habitues  and 
eternal  vigilance  was  the  price  of  liberty  to  those  who  possessed 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


119 


a  trifling  modicum.  I  was  in  Frisco  at  the  time  of  the  fire,  but 
fortunately,  with  others,  similarly  addicted,  managed  to  get  to 
the  Oakland  Mole  amid  discomforting  trials,  and  from  this  point 
•  I  made  no  relay  until  I  rode  the  ' '  blind  baggage ' '  and  curvetted 
right  into  Ogden,  Utah. 


San  Francisco,  prior  to  the  passage  of  the  anti-drug  law, 
housed  more  dope  fiends  than  any  other  community  in  the 
U.  S.  A.  Butte,  Montana,  ranked  second.  There  was  universal 
panic  in  the  dope  colony  in  this  latter  camp  when  the  measure 
went  into  effect  March  1st,  1915,  some  of  the  addicts  "hitting 
the  grit"  to  the  Canadian  border,  others  hiking  to  the  Mexican 
line,  and  still  others  willing  to  boldly  walk  into  state  hospitals. 


In  taste,  chloral  has  a  faintly  sweet  odor  like  the  aroma  of 
apples,  and  this  taste  is  not  unpleasant.  It  produces  a  sense  of 
delicious  warmth,  and  languor  begins  gradually  to  steal  over  one 
from  some  unexplained  cause.  An  unaccountable  sleep  weighs 
down  the  eyelids,  and  at  the  same  time  the  brain  works  actively 
and  a  hundred  beautiful  and  pleasing  ideas  flit  thru  it.  One 
feels  utterly  lethargic  and  everything  appears  to  be  reeling 
slowly  round  in  a  drowsy  dance,  of  which  the  subject  is  the 
center.  It  reduces  one  to  a  partial  state  of  insensibility,  gradu- 
ally going  on  to  complete  coma.  I 


The  color  and  peculiar  phases  of  a  hasheesh  dream  are  ma- 
terially affected  by  one's  surroundings  just  prior  to  the  sleep. 
The  lights,  odors,  sounds  and  colors  are  the  strands  which  the 
deft  fingers  of  imagination  will  weave  into  the  hemp  reveries 
and  dreams,  which  seem  as  real  as  those  of  everyday  life  and 
always  more  grand.  Hasheesh  eaters  and  smokers  in  the  East 
recognized  this  fact,  and  always,  prior  to  indulging  in  the  drug, 
surrounded  themselves  with  the  most  pleasant  sounds,  faces, 
forms  and  colors. 

Smokers  use  the  dry  shrub  known  as  ginyeh  and  is  the  dried 
tops  of  the  hemp  plant.  The  hemp  lozenges  are  made  from  the 
finest  Nepaul  resin  of  the  hemp,  mixed  with  butter,  sugar,  honey, 
flour,  pounded  datura  seeds,  some  opium  and  a  little  henbane  or 
hyoscyamus.  In  India  it  is  known  as  Majoon;  among  the  Moors 
as  El  Mojen. 


Since  my  final  emancipation  from  the  trammels  of  opium, 


120 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


my  normal  sensibilities  have  been  humbled  to  the  dust  and 
shamed  into  righteous  indignation  by  a  contemplation  of  the 
many  blunders  I  committed  and  the  many  foolish  notions  I 
entertained  while  in  narcotic  captivity. 


Since  my  final  emancipation  from  the  slavery  of  morphine, 
I  have  dreamed  of  being  addicted  to  its  use,  and  what  compunc- 
tions and  heart  throbs  I  had  about  how  I  was  going  to  be  re- 
leased, how  I  could  endure  the  pathological  horrors  incident  to 
treatment  again,  and  what  reflections,  as  bitter  as  coloquintida, 
I  nursed  of  a  remorseful  nature  about  my  moral  standing,  and 
what  ghastly  features  assembled  and  haunted  me  as  in  a  night- 
mare 's  tightening  grip !  Of  course,  upon  awakening,  I  was 
stunned  by  the  agreeable  surprise  that  I  was  as  free  as  a  bird 
in  the  air.  He  who  has  not  left  something  sad  behind  him,  and 
reawoke  in  the  sunshine  to  feel  the  golden  elixir  of  health  and 
happiness  in  his  veins  anew,  may  take  it  that  he  has  at  least  one 
pleasure  yet  unspent. 


On  the  ferry  boat  plying  between  San  Francisco  and  the 
Oakland  Mole,  I  encountered  a  confidence  man  who  sported  gig 
whiskers  and  the  other  accessories  to  look  the  part  of  gentle 
suavity.  He  approached  me,  evidently  to  pave  the  way  to  the 
possession  of  any  loose  velvet  that  I  might  have  had,  in  that  con- 
ventionality and  smooth  speech  of  1 1  con ' '  diddlers.  The  conver- 
sation was  at  first  en  train,  and  inter  alia,  I  communicated  to 
him  the  fact  that  I  was  a  snowbird  and  "broke."  I  confessed 
this  much  by  way  of  opening  a  masked  battery.  Our  tete-a-tete 
was  soon  over,  and  he  mingled  with  the  passengers  in  his  own 
subtle  manner,  and  as  the  boat  reached  the  foot  of  Market 
street,  and  passengers  were  about  to  go  ashore,  he  peeled  from 
a  sawdust  roll  a  one  hundred  dollar  bill  and  handed  it  to  me, 
simultaneously  staring  at  me  with  eyes  glistening  with  un- 
hallowed fire,  and  with  the  air  of  the  baffled  bull  of  Phalaris, 
exclaimed : 

"Take  this  and  saw  wood.   Mum's  the  word." 

I  asked  him  to  take  a  drink,  and  we  repaired  to  a  sybarite 
grill  on  Kearney  street.  I  ordered  a  hot  bird,  an  Arkansaw 
toothpick  and  a  bottle  of  Amontillado  from  sun-kissed  Spain. 
In  an  unguarded  moment  over  our  libations,  I  cautiously  slipped 
a  harmless  dash  of  dope  into  his  wine  goblet.  Under  its  spell  he 
lost  consciousness  of  the  things  about  him,  and  while  he  dozed  in 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


121 


his  chair  he  looked  to  me  as  meek  as  the  ass  on  which  Jesus  rode 
to  Egypt.  While  he  thus  slept  and  dreamed  of  Bung  Loo  and 
3-card  Monte,  of  the  Tivoli  and  the  Gooseneck,  of  grooved  dice 
boxes,  trimmed  cards  and  pocket  roulette  wheels,  I  rolled  him  for 
both  his  flash  wad  and  his  tainted  boodle.  If  I  hadn't  diddled 
him,  he  would  have  diddled  me,  so  I  considered  the  bilk  as  easy 
as  getting  money  from  father,  and  thus  beat  him  at  his  own  game 
to  a  stiff  froth. 


Inordinate  indulgence  in  alcoholic  excesses  culminated  in  an 
abrupt  awakening  during  the  night  on  frequent  occasions 
wherein  I  was  provoked  to  shoot  myself  with  an  injection  of 
morphia.  The  occasion  is  fresh  in  my  memory  when  one  night 
at  the  holy  hour,  when  graveyards  yawn  and  hell  itself  breathes 
out  contagion  to  this  world,  in  a  hotel  in  San  Fernando,  Calif., 
I  employed  myself  in  the  process  of  preparing  a  i  1  shot. ' '  In  the 
manipulations  I  used  a  silver-plated  hypodermic,  which,  when 
handled  under  the  uncertain  and  flickering  rays  of  the  tallow 
dip,  resembled  bright  and  shining  steel.  My  manoeuvres  had 
evidently  been  observed  by  some  peeping  Tom,  in  all  possibility 
a  "native  son"  and  who,  at  the  breakfast  table  on  the  following 
morning,  regaled  the  guests  with  the  subjoined  junkology: 

"Say,  fellows,  I  saw  a  man  trying  to  commit  suicide  last 
night  with  a  small  steel  smokeless  pistol.  He  first  shot  himself 
in  the  leg,  then  in  the  arm.  His  nerve  must  have  gone  back  on 
him,  for  he  did  not  shoot  at  his  head,  or  at  any  other  part  of  his 
body.  At  last,  he  put  up  the  gun,  'blew'  out  the  candle  and 
went  to  his  room — number  13." 

In  the  face  of  this  vitriol,  I  closed  like  a  clam,  and  hastily 
made  a  pas  de  zephyr  in  undignified  precipitation. 


Getting  results  from  experimentation  frequently  seduced  me 
to  ramble  in  untrodden  fields.  A  curiosity  seeker  by  nature,  I 
mixed  dashes  of  morphine,  chloral  and  hasheesh  in  solution  and 
then  quaffed  the  cup.  For  a  period  of  about  fourteen  hours  the 
imagination  made  me  an  inhabitant  of  regions  never  theretofore 
explored,  where  I  lolled  in  an  atmosphere  of  dreamy  indolence 
and  sans  souci  reverie. 


The  sustaining  power  of  opium  is  marvelous.  I  remember 
having  fasted  for  no  less  than  three  consecutive  days.    It  was 


122 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


on  a  Friday  afternoon  that  I  entered  a  Chink  hop- joint  on 
Dupont  street,  San  Francisco,  and  there  smoked  the  opium  pills 
so  strenuously  that  when  I  awoke  and  emerged  therefrom  I 
found  that  it  was  the  following  Monday  afternoon  by  the 
Chronicle  clock,  and  the  newsboys  were  calling  out  "All  about 
the  Durrant  case."  I  recall  that  when  I  entered  thru  the 
violet-velvet  curtains  to  the  silent  ante-chamber  hung  with 
oriental  drapery,  I  inhaled  a  fragrant,  intoxicating  vapor  issu- 
ing from  a  strange  sort  of  incense  that  burned  within  and  that 
almost  overpowered  my  senses.  Everything  about  the  company 
savored  of  orientalism,  the  orange  colored  velvet  carpet,  the 
Venetian  lanterns  and  the  mantels  filled  with  queer  Chinese 
porcelains.  Sleeping  there  in  that  Chinese  bunk  surrounded  by 
slant-eyed  Chinks,  I  had  some  happy  dreams.  And  with  wide 
open  eyes  I  beheld  a  brass  Buddha  do  the  can-can,  a  Venetian 
lantern  to  the  eel  glide  and  a  huge  Japanese  jar  danced  the 
pedestal  clog.  A  great  elk's  head  bowed  in  reverential  obeisance 
to  me,  a  wine  glass  on  the  table  danced  a  mazurka  with  a  punch 
goblet,  and  mortals  walked  right  out  of  the  picture  frames  on 
the  wall.  While  asleep  in  the  bunk  I  was  in  graduated  pro- 
cession the  King  of  Siam,  the  Sultan  of  Sulu,  the  Doge  of 
Venice,  the  Maharajah  of  Rajputanah,  the  Prince  of  Timbuctoo 
and  the  Jack  of  Hearts. 

But,  alas,  illusion  is  the  food  of  dreams! 


My  oracular  judgment  is  that  Naples  is  the  dirtiest  city, 
Paris  the  gayest,  Jerusalem  the  rarest,  Philadelphia  the  quietest, 
Glasgow  the  drunkenest,  Moscow  the  quaintest,  Monte  Carlo 
the  sportiest,  Cairo  the  strangest,  London  the  foggiest,  Washing- 
ton the  cleanest,  Chicago  the  windiest,  and  Frisco  the  dopiest 
city  in  all  the  world,  and  this  after  having  visited  all  of  them 
and  having  studied  them  with  a  more  or  less  philosophic  eye. 


The  late  P.  T.  Barnum  crystallized  a  truth  into  an  aphorism 
when  he  uttered  the  dictum:  The  American  people  like  to  be 
humbugged  (Mundus  vult  decipi). 

In  1905  I  was  sent  to  the  Keeley  Institute  in  Denver,  Colo., 
to  undergo  treatment  as  a  chronic  morphine  habitue.  The 
Keeley  doctor  upon  my  avowal  that  I  was  a  confirmed  booze- 
hound  as  well,  informed  me  that  the  treatment  would  include 
both  morphine  and  John  Barleycorn.  In  other  words,  it  was 
proposed  that  the  whiskey  devil  and  the  morphine  Beelzebub 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


123 


be  driven  out  by  the  Keeley  dragon.  I  rusticated  there  for  six 
weeks,  there  being  no  thumbscrew  of  personal  restraint  what- 
ever, and  when  I  finally  emerged  therefrom,  a  whiskey  highball 
or  a  club  cocktail  was  just  as  inviting  to  my  gustatory  propensi- 
ties and  a  ' '  shot ' '  of  dope  just  as  welcome  to  my  animal  economy 
as  before.  I  would  violate  the  truth  were  I  to  say  that  during 
this  period  I  did  not  clandestinely  use  the  "gun."  Is  it  any 
wonder  when  it  is  considered  that  my  personal  locomotion  was 
unfettered,  and  that  I  possessed  the  "long  green"  to  maintain 
a  supply  of  morphia?  At  the  very  threshold,  considering  the 
fact  that  I  was  using  over  fifty  grains  of  morphine  per  day,  I 
entered  with  misgivings,  believing  that  six  weeks  was  a  period 
wholly  inadequate  even  under  restraint  to  arrest  the  habit,  but 
as  the  County  of  Arapahoe  was  willing  to  foot  the  bill,  I  was 
willing  to  become  a  "star  boarder."  When  these  ministrations 
were  concluded,  I  shook  the  Denver  mud  from  my  skees  and 
boarded  a  green  tin  flivver  for  Erin  Go  Bragh. 


To  the  naked  eye  or  subjected  to  the  power  of  the  microscopic 
lens,  the  sulphate  of  quinine  and  the  sulphate  of  morphine 
appear  alike,  but  the  true  test  is  the  placing  of  each  substance 
separately  in  the  palm  of  one's  hand  or  on  any  portion  of  the 
anatomical  surface  and  then  apply  a  slight  moisture.  The 
morphia  will  gradually  absorb  into  the  tissues,  but  the  quinine 
will  not.  Both  drugs  are  feathery  and  silky  and  of  an  efflor- 
escent color. 


The  lotus  is  a  white  and  blue  water  lily.  Denizens  of  the 
East  Indies  where  it  flourishes,  indulge  in  its  use  to  drown 
worldly  cares,  and  it  produces  a  condition  of  forgetfulness  and 
induces  a  status  of  indolence  to  the  worshipers  at  Lethe's  wharf. 


History  records  that  something  like  two  thousand  years  ago 
the  use  of  opium  was  indulged  in  by  the  poet,  Homer,  who 
begged  his  bread  in  the  Greek  towns;  and  history  also  records 
that  Anastasius  used  opium,  and  carried  with  him  the  "little 
golden  receptacle  of  the  pernicious  drug." 


Reduced  to  distressful  straits  while  a  doper,  I  was  compelled 
to  pawn  my  law  books  for  the  stuff.   I  would  have  cum  magna 


124 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


gratia  parted  with  my  reputation  had  I  had  one;  I  would  have 
hypothecated  my  passport  to  Heaven  had  I  possessed  this  carte 
blanche,  and  this  regardless  of  its  non-negotiable  character ;  yea, 
for  a  1 1  shot ' '  I  would  have  sold  the  ' '  fee-simple  of  my  salvation, 
the  inheritance  of  it;  I  would  have  cut  the  entails  of  all  re- 
mainders and  a  perpetual  succession  for  it  perpetually." 


Part  II 
In  the  Tow  of  the  Fiend 


CHAPTER  XIV 


DOCTOR  JEKYLL  AND  MR.  HYDE 


"Thia  murderous  shaft  that's  shot! 
Hath  not  yet  lighted,  and  our  safest  way 
Is  to  avoid  the  aim.    Therefore,  to  horse; 
And  let  us  not  he  dainty  of  leave-taking,  but  shift  away, 
There's  warrant  in  that  theft  that  steals  itself 
When  there's  no  mercy  left." 

— Macbeth. 

The  quality  of  mixing  with  my  fellows  is  one  of  my  strong 
natural  points.  I  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  my  soul  that 
with  this  quality  of  mixing  with  human  units  of  diverse  compass 
of  mind  and  soul,  I  might  have  glittered  as  a  Fourth  Ward  poli- 
tician or  a  latter-day  Joshua.  The  peculiar  analytic  attributes 
which  I  possess  come  from  the  fact  that  I  wear  windows  in  my 
bosom,  and  the  indefinable  something  in  my  makeup,  whatever 
it  may  be,  produces  the  compelling,  dominating  personality.  As 
the  burnished  sun  sucks  up  the  waters  of  the  earth,  or  as  a  mael- 
strom engulfs  everything  in  its  seething  vortex,  so  I  draw  men 
to  me  and  force  them  to  bend  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee  by 
a  subtle  wand,  unrivaled  only  by  a  Rhabdomantist. 

I  am  not  a  hapless  chronicler  of  my  own  tragedies,  yet  peni- 
tence visits  me  when  I  reflect  upon  the  one  which  stands  out  as 
the  cancer  of  a  concealed  disgrace,  borne  upon  the  altar  of  an 
insatiable  licentiousness  when  pinioned  by  the  fetters  of  the 
alcoholic  king  and  the  emperor  of  drugs.  For  sixteen  years  it 
has  been  a  picture  turned  to  the  wall.  Calculating,  then,  the 
lustra  of  life  from  a  consideration  of  the  ferocity  and  pace  which 
I  have  lived  for  the  past  forty  years,  Time's  palsied  fingers 
would  write  that  I  have  arrived  at  the  royal  age  of  four  hundred 
years,  for  in  truth  and  in  fact,  I  have  lived  ten  in  one  during 
that  period  as  a  voluptuary,  a  wanton,  a  licentiate,  a  variant, 
full  of  mirth  and  misery,  joy  and  bitter  aloes. 

The  following  I  publish  to  relieve  a  distressed  conscience, 


128 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


even  at  the  peril  of  being  handed  over  to  the  executioner,  not- 
withstanding that  no  one  is  bound  to  accuse  himself  except  before 
God. 

Its  revelation  breathes  of  pulque  and  poison ;  its  pages  exhale 
the  incense  of  the  hop-joint,  the  aroma  of  the  now  outlawed 
saloon.  Reeking  as  it  does  with  the  juice  of  the  poppy  and  the 
nectar  of  the  grape,  it  drips  as  well  with  the  blood  of  an  innocent 
victim  unconsciously  transported  to  his  long  slumber  within  the 
portals  of  the  tomb.  Many  moons  since  I  have  reproached  myself 
in  outrageous  condemnation  with  unremitting  intensity.  To  ap- 
pease the  offended  deities,  I  have  knelt  down  in  the  full  of  the 
beads,  gone  thru  the  stations  of  the  cross,  moistened  my  head 
with  the  holy  unction  and  offered  up  salvos  to  the  Throne.  I 
have  done  penance  before  the  icons  of  idolatrous  adoration  and 
performed  religious  duties  with  edifying  assiduity.  I  have 
beaten  my  breast  and  howled  with  shrill  and  prolonged  ulula- 
tions.  My  agony  could  not  have  been  worse  had  the  great  aveng- 
ing angel  stood  over  and  beaten  me  with  cruel  stripes  and 
scourged  me  with  rods.  As  the  Mohammedan  facing  Mecca, 
prostrates  himself  and  exclaims,  " Allah,  keep  me  true,"  so  I 
say,  "Lord,  forgive  me  this  foul  murder." 

Thru  the  years  of  groping  in  the  darkness,  guilty  of  having 
been  the  author  of  a  fellow  man's  untimely  passing  into  some 
new  infinitude,  I  have  escaped  the  dragnet  of  the  police,  the 
dreaded  touch  upon  the  arm,  the  electric  chair,  the  winding  sheet 
of  Potter's  fosse. 

As  I  perpetuate  this  confession  in  the  immortality  of  frozen 
prose,  may  the  gods  defend  me  if  there  lurks  between  the  lines — 
that  the  probative  bear  no  hinge  or  loop — to  hang  a  doubt  on 
relative  to  my  guilt,  except  that  if  he  who  left  this  outgrown 
shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  could  speak  to  mortals  here  below, 
he  would  dictate  his  own  obituary,  for  he  was,  in  fact,  a  party  to 
his  own  enrollment  among  the  gods,  volenti  non  fit  injuria. 

Therefore,  gentlemen,  be  seated,  while  I  uncork  a  phial  of 
one  night's  horror. 

In  my  time  I  have  been  something  of  a  student  of  life,  and 
observer  of  men,  women  and  affairs,  an  appraiser  of  their  char- 
acter, conduct  and  motives.  Thus  a  kind  of  instinct  which  bred 
a  tendency  and  grew  to  a  habit  has  led  me  into  diverse  com- 
panies, the  lowest  and  meanest.  My  entree  to  the  company  of 
the  deceased  occurred  while  I  was  one  of  a  group  of  convivial 
timber  wolves  before  a  tavern  bar  in  a  hookworm  village  in 
Western  Ontario,  Canada.  Prior  to  my  contact  with  him,  I  had 
eloquently  practiced  at  this  bar,  and  after  an  exchange  of  greet- 
ings, we  warmed  up  to  each  other  in  camaraderie  as  beaux 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


129 


esprit s,  and  each  drink  that  we  indulged  in  became  the  magnet 
for  another.  In  this  wise  we  seemed  drawn  to  each  other  by  a 
strong,  strange  sense  as  the  Persian  says  one  planet  is  drawn  to 
another.  A  common  feeling  united  us,  and  a  common  thought 
animated  our  minds  and  our  actions.  After  all,  misery  perhaps 
is  the  strongest  of  all  bonds. 

In  response  to  the  itchings  of  thirst,  drinks  assembled  them- 
selves upon  the  bar  with  the  regularity  of  a  pendulum.  In  these 
diversions,  I  noticed  that  my  associate  became  incapable  of  per- 
sonal locomotion  and  that  further,  so  far  as  conviviality  is  con- 
cerned, was  neither  company  for  man  nor  beast.  It  therefore 
became  necessary  for  him  to  be  conveyed  to  the  hay,  and  this  was 
hastily  accomplished,  and  as  the  time  was  early  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  cloudless  autumnal  day,  I  had  expected  that  an  evanescent 
campaign  of  sleep  would  restore  him  to  a  reasonable  status  of 
normality.  But  as  to  this  I  had  recklessly  reckoned,  for  within 
the  hour  he  rejoined  me  in  the  giddy  whirl  before  the  tavern 
timber.  I  observed  his  visage  as  it  was  reflected  before  the 
tavern  mirror,  and  it  certainly  betrayed  the  traces  of  broken 
slumber  and  his  expectoration  showed  the  "dark,  brown  froth" 
of  a  "hot  box."  His  balance  was  unsteady,  and  his  glance  was 
shifty.  His  visage  had  that  wine-bibbing  caste  and  he  looked  the 
part  to  perfection  of  a  graduated  sot.  His  nerves  seemed  on 
edge,  his  monosyllabic  stuttering  and  the  intermittent  spasms  of 
pandiculation  that  he  indulged  in,  proclaimed  him  to  both  the 
rounder  and  the  most  unlearned  observer  as  one  upon  the  preci- 
pice of  the  jimjams. 

Having  disposed  of  this  diagnostic  phase,  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  evidence  before  me,  I  became  aware,  inter  pocula,  that 
he  had  not  left  his  mesmerism  in  his  suitcase.  He  read  me  thru 
and  thru,  and  he  wanted  what  he  wanted  when  he  wanted  it. 
I  read  him  too,  and  I  began  to  divine  inarticulate  thoughts. 
Moved  by  some  affinity  within  us,  just  as  the  alchemist's  magic 
touch  converts  between  two  breaths  one  elixir  in  crucibles  to 
another,  or  as  zinc  and  acid  generate  the  kindred  mystery  of 
electricity,  so  I  saw  in  that  man's  flushed  visage,  desire  flash 
thru  his  veins  and  light  his  heart  and  eyes  with  a  divining  color. 
In  his  face  there  was  a  true  intensity ;  his  keen  eyes  were  full  of 
distances,  that  is,  of  sensuous  desires.  I  understood  in  an  elec- 
tric flash  of  consciousness. 

In  the  interchange  of  glances  and  in  answering  smiles  there 
lies  an  eloquence  and  a  variety  of  language  far  beyond  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  most  magnificent  of  spoken  phrases. 

Whether  a  telepathic  wire  had  been  installed  between  us  and 
a  means  of  communication  established  one  to  the  other  by  some 


130 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


occult  or  other  force,  I  do  not  profess  to  say,  but  I  know  that 
ever  since  that  time,  I  have  had  an  abiding  faith  in  telepathy. 
There  are  people  who  have  double  personalities,  even  triple  or 
multiple  personalities  which  differ  utterly,  all  coming  under  the 
head  of  submerged  personalities.  I  believe  that  a  strong  will  can 
by  virtue  of  its  strength  take  possession  of  a  weaker  one,  even  at 
a  distance  and  can  regulate  the  impulses  and  the  actions  of  the 
owner  of  it.  If  there  was  one  man  in  the  world  who  had  a  more 
highly  developed  will  than  any  of  the  rest  of  the  human  family, 
there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  able  to  reduce  his  fellow 
creatures  to  the  condition  of  mere  automatons. 

Now,  in  order  to  circumvent  the  accusation  of  ambiguity  in 
the  conveyance  of  my  opium-engendered  ideas  by  the  poverty  of 
speech  employed,  let  me  say  that  this  debauchee  divined  me  as  a 
morphine  fiend,  just  as  I  had  sized  him  up  as  a  candidate  for 
treatment  in  the  incipient  throes  of  delirium  tremens.  So  that 
I  was  not  surprised  when  he,  in  the  utmost  sangfroid  manner  and 
in  that  artful  way  known  only  to  the  obsessed,  importuned  me  to 
allay  his  fevered  occiput  and  nerve-racked  body  by  and  thru  the 
potency  of  certain  minisrtations  known  to  myself,  his  words 
being  veiled  in  a  subtle  and  specious  speech. 

Some  mortals  I  know  are  dowered  with  ultramundane  quali- 
ties that  place  them  upon  pedestals  above  their  fellows,  much  like 
a  sculptor  is  regarded  over  an  ordinary  stonemason  or  a  member 
of  the  great  historical  school  is  above  an  artist  of  the  inferior  and 
vulgar  class.  My  fellow  inebriate  was  a  clairvoyant  of  some 
exalted  predominance,  and  besides  this  he  had  before  his  gaze  as 
aids  to  accurate  conclusions  my  gimlet-pointed  pupils  with  their 
dark  dots  in  the  center  of  the  iris,  my  ashen-faced  contour  like 
unto  a  waxen  Christ,  and  the  brilliant  orbs  of  a  morphine  fiend. 
Hence,  he  divined  me  as  a  "  snowbird ' '  and  begged  for  a  ' '  shot ' ' 
of  my  favorite  nepenthe. 

In  all  of  my  intercourse  with  multiform  humanity  in  my  cir- 
cumgyratory  peregrinations  over  the  world's  geography,  I  have 
always  comported  myself  discreetly  in  the  dispensation  of  the 
drug  to  those  not  tolerated  to  its  use.  In  instances  of  chronic 
habitues,  obviously  there  is  a  freedom  of  traffic,  an  unwritten 
freemasonry  of  mutuality  in  the  brotherhood  of  hopheads.  In 
all  other  cases,  best^  safety  lies  in  fear.  Not  knowing,  therefore, 
of  my  friend's  chronic  habituation  to  morphia,  I  prudently  hesi- 
tated to  allow  his  prayer  and  in  a  gracious  spirit,  in  totidem 
verbis,  so  informed  him.  But  unlike  some  mortals,  there  is  a 
veneer  to  my  apparent  front  of  stolidity  which  can  be  pierced 
by  prayerful  supplications,  and  when  the  persistence  of  this  de- 
bauchee became  so  insistent,  and  there  was  such  drastic  force 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


131 


lent  to  his  lisping  modesty,  and  the  fact  that  his  general  physical 
stat  as  was  deplorable  to  the  eye  and  so  vulnerable  to  human  com- 
passion, that  my  recent  declination  mellowed  into  melting  pity, 
and  I  half  consented  to  accomodate  him,  believing  as  I  did,  that 
there  is  no  hell  and  that  if  there  be  any,  the  devil  is  dead.  In 
any  case,  I  believed  that  the  stars  would  roll  on  in  their  majestic 
spheres,  regardless  of  mortal  hopes  and  fears.  Thus  did  I  fall 
before  the  demon  of  perversity,  which  only  tempts  us  once. 

Accordingly,  we  repaired  to  his  room  in  the  hotel  above  the 
tavern  bar,  and  I  there  administered  to  him  a  hypodermic  injec- 
tion of  a  quarter  grain  of  morphine  visualized  by  the  inaccuracy 
of  ocular  measurement,  which,  to  say  the  least  is  misguiding  and 
dangerous.  In  having  done  this  under  the  circumstances,  I  felt 
a  consciousness  of  having  lost  my  own  self-respect,  and  in  order 
to  endure  my  own  society  and  drown  its  recollection,  I  jabbed  the 
needle  into  my  own  arm.  When  this  was  done,  I  left  my  friend 
lying  upon  the  bed  in  his  room  and  I  repaired  to  the  bar  below. 

It  was  while  emptying  ' '  shoopers ' '  of  ale  here  some  time  after 
the  above  episode  took  place,  that  I  began  to  ' '  get  my  head, ' '  and 
I  began  to  ponder  over  the  status  of  this  friend  whom  I  had  just 
left  in  his  room.  The  thought  suddenly  flashed  thru  my  brain 
cells  now  hypnotized  by  morphine  and  ale,  that  indulgence  in 
sleep  by  one  not  habituated  to  morphia  might  metamorphose  one 
from  the  physiological  to  the  toxic  stage  and  result  in  paralysis 
of  the  vital  functions,  coma  and  death.  So  that  after  due  com- 
munion with  my  sensibilities,  I  hurried  to  his  room  in  order  that 
I  might  arrest  the  process  of  slumber  or  forestall  its  advance 
should  he  manifest  any  symptoms  of  drowsiness.  He  had  the 
start  of  me  of  about  one  hour  and  this  fact  was  alarming.  Reach- 
ing his  door,  I  at  once  tried  the  knob,  but  from  this  experiment 
I  found  that  it  must  be  securely  bolted  upon  the  inside,  an  act 
unwittingly  done  by  my  patient.  I  then  commenced  a  thump- 
ing upon  the  exterior  of  the  door.  The  inauguration  of  a  tattoo 
upon  the  transom  was  also  brought  into  requisition.  I  grabbed 
a  convenient  chair  and  slapped  it  against  the  door  with  thunder- 
ing impact.  None  of  these  manipulations  evoked  a  response, 
and  for  all  of  them,  I  might  have  tried  to  waken  Duncan.  Not 
a  sound  emanated  therefrom ;  not  a  mouse  disturbed  the  hallowed 
house.    It  was  like  the  white  silence  of  the  morgue  of  death. 

I  peered  thru  the  glass  of  the  transom  and  beheld  him  lying 
upon  the  bed.  I  observed  that  there  were  no  undulations  of  the 
torso,  which,  under  normal  conditions,  heaves  in  the  activity  of 
respiration,  much  less  did  I  discover  a  sound  from  the  voiceless 
lips. 

An  insufferable  gloom  oppressed  me.    I  was  terror  stricken 


132 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  my  brain  became  a  seething  cauldron  of  confused  ideas, 
realizing  that  I  dare  not  make  any  undue  tintamarre  which  might 
attract  the  inmates,  who,  upon  the  least  hint,  might  raise  the  hue 
and  cry  and  the  episode  culminate  in  my  incarceration  as  a  mur- 
derer under  the  inexorable  English  law. 

I  applied  the  phantasmal  balm  to  my  soul,  troubled  as  it 
was  by  the  horror  of  the  situation,  that  by  reason  of  some  primi- 
tive imperfection  in  the  glass  of  the  transom,  or  the  apparent 
bebulosity  on  its  inner  surface  due  to  the  accumulation  of  foreign 
matter  thereon,  the  perspective  was  such  that  it  afforded  no 
true  index  of  the  undualtions  of  the  torso,  hence  the  reclining 
form  might  be  in  the  throes  of  normal  slumber.  In  a  momen- 
tary transport  of  glee,  I  hugged  this  as  one  last  hope,  a  hope  as 
slender  and  fragile  as  the  willow  branch  at  which  a  drowning 
wretch  catches  to  save  himself.  This  was  the  only  solatium,  the 
solitary  fount  to  feed  the  vegetation  of  a  withered  heart. 

But  what  if  he  were  at  that  very  moment  dead?  In  a  few 
hours,  unless  I  effected  a  speedy  getaway,  I  would  be  locked  up 
and  finally  handed  over  to  the  hangman.  And  yet,  knowing 
that  I  was  innocent,  why  should  I  fly  ?  Rather  remain  and  face 
the  music  than  be  apprehended  in  flight ! 

When,  finally  I  became  capable  of  connected  thought,  I  found 
myself  faced  by  a  big  problem.  If  the  worst  came,  suspicion 
would  point  to  me,  whether  I  stood  my  ground  or  attempted  to 
escape.  And  the  unpalatable  truth  is  that  I  was  the  last  person 
seen  with  him  alive.  Moreover,  I  knew  not  whether  he  was  a 
stranger  in  these  parts  or  a  permanent  fixture.  In  this  latter 
case,  a  world  of  friends  would  come  forward  to  assist  the  law  of- 
ficer of  the  Crown  in  the  event  of  his  death  in  a  prosecution  to 
force  conviction  of  his  murderer,  and  further  that  any  virtues 
that  the  deceased  might  have  had  would  plead  like  angels, 
trumpet-tongued  against  the  deep  damnation  of  his  slaughter. 
I  mused  that  the  village  was  a  mere  speck  on  the  blue  prints,  and 
yet  this  very  fact  reflected  an  uneasiness,  affording  a  conclusion 
augmenting  the  accusation  against  me. 

Having  engaged  a  room  in  the  same  hotel  earlier  in  the  day, 
I  resolved  to  remain  at  least  a  brief  season  awaiting  the  outcome. 
It  was  now  supper  time,  and  from  this  fact  I  became  affected 
with  the  added  dread  that  should  he  be  missed  at  the  supper 
table,  this  circumstance  might  foster  a  desire  in  some  of  the  in- 
mates to  awaken  him  in  his  room. 

Of  course,  I  could  not  tell  a  lie;  I  dared  not  tell  the  truth; 
so  I  compromised  by  keeping  my  mouth  shut. 

The  evening  meal  was  soon  over,  and  I  retreated  to  the  room 
assigned  to  me  earlier  in  the  day  and  this  was  on  the  same  floor. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


133 


Here  I  resolved  to  keep  awake  during  the  night  bent  on  trying  to 
awaken  the  sleeper,  if  possible,  or  otherwise  ascertain  the  truth 
with  an  expenditure  of  the  least  possible  stir  on  my  part.  Dur- 
ing the  pulseless  watches  of  the  night,  first  taking  a  look  around 
to  assure  myself  that  everyone  in  the  house  was  asleep,  I  tread 
the  soft  pedals  with  depressing  monotony  from  my  room  to  the 
door  of  his  room  to  endeavor  to  awaken  him.  I  tried  the  key  of 
my  own  room  in  the  lock  of  the  door  leading  to  his  room,  and 
altho'  it  turned  with  the  usual  click,  it  refused  to  respond  and 
the  sound  echoed  with  thin,  phantasmal  reverberations.  Neces- 
sity is  ever  a  sophist.  I  tried  to  open  the  transom,  but  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  open  the  gates  of  hell. 

I  was  up  against  a  proposition  the  solution  of  which  was  as 
far  from  me  as  the  poles  from  each  other.  Like  a  soul  obsessed, 
backward  and  forward  I  roamed,  each  time  with  a  new  clue 
to  the  denouement  of  the  mystery  or  a  new  plan  to  pursue.  I 
rejected  a  hundred  schemes  because  their  accomplishment  in- 
volved a  chance  of  detection.  A  snare  lurked  in  every  possibility. 
The  prospect  seemed  hopeless,  yet  the  more  hopeless  it  seemed, 
the  harder  it  drove  me  to  frantic  energies.  A  thousand  thoughts 
came  into  my  mind,  one  of  these  being  the  arousing  of  the  guests 
and  inmates  and  of  unfolding  the  whole  scheme.  But  on  second 
reflection  I  could  not  afford  to  take  any  chances  of  thus  having 
the  hue  and  cry  raised. 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  evening,  and,  sad  as  was  my  watch 
and  hectic  as  the  visions  which  swept  thru  my  heavy  head,  I 
would  not  quicken  by  one  willing  hour  of  sleep.  The  sad  duties 
of  a  gray  to-morrow  must  come.  At  times,  I  sat  and  stared  at 
the  wall,  living  the  brief  spell  of  my  last  life  again — all  the  epi- 
sode and  change,  all  the  hurry  and  glitter  and  unrest  that  was 
forever  my  portion — and  then  in  spite  of  resolution  I  would  doze 
to  other  visions  outlined  more  brightly  on  the  dark  background 
of  oblivion ;  and  then  I  started  up,  my  will  all  at  war  with  tired 
nature's  sweet  insistence  and  paced  in  weary  round  the  the  little 
room,  solitary  but  for  those  teeming  thoughts  and  my  own  black 
shadow  which  stalked,  sullen  and  slow,  ever  beside  me. 

I  was  being  invaded  by  a  stagnation  of  sleep  and  any  pro- 
crastination might  result  in  my  dissolving  from  suppressed  emo- 
tion. 

But  who  can  deride  the  great  mother  for  long?  'Twas  sleep 
I  needed  and  she  would  have  it.  So  it  came  heavily  upon  my 
heavy  eyelids — strong,  hypnotic  sleep  as  black  and  silent  as  the 
abyss  of  the  nether  world.    My  head  sank  upon  my  arm,  my  arm 


134 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


upon  the  foot  of  the  velvet  bed,  and  there,  worn  out  with  grief 
and  watching,  I  slept. 

At  last  I  awoke  and  for  a  supreme  moment  lay  in  the  warm 
glow  of  returning  consciousness.  As  I  sat  upon  the  bed  contem- 
plating the  sins  of  mankind,  the  hideous  thought  was  upper-most 
in  my  mind  of  a  dead  man  in  a  nearby  room  and  I  was  his  mur- 
derer. 

I  cannot  hope,  writing  now,  to  convey  in  words  at  my  com- 
mand, a  sense  even  remote  of  the  utter  loneliness  which  in  that 
dreadful  moment  closed  coldly  down  upon  me.  To  escape  was 
a  natural  impulse ;  to  obey  it,  was  quixotic. 

It  was  now  four  o'clock  a.  m.,  and  I  made  a  last  stand  by 
taking  a  farewell  look  thru  the  transom. 

The  complete  silence  was  oppressive.  There  was  neither 
creak  nor  murmur.  He  lay  in  the  some  position  as  when  he  first 
sought  rest  upon  the  bed  after  having  bolted  the  door,  and  his 
form  was  as  still  as  a  stone  god.  I  was  gazing  upon  a  corpse. 
It  was  not  sleep,  then,  the  soporific  sleep  that  a  quarter  grain  of 
morphine  produces,  but  it  was  death  that  an  overdose  takes  body 
and  soul.  The  devil's  needle  had  worked  its  sorcery.  The 
cursed  elixir  had  done  its  work.  Neither  the  living  nor  the  dead 
knew  that  "it  was  loaded"  with  an  overdose. 

I  was  petrified  with  terror  and  my  nerves  were  on  edge.  But 
my  mind  was  fully  made  up.  I  decided  in  no  shilly-shally  sense 
to  "chuck"  the  whole  thing  and  avail  myself  of  "leg  bail."  I 
thought  with  Pericles,  "Lest  my  life  be  cropped,  I'll  shun  the 
danger  which  I  fear."  Gray  as  the  prospect  ahead  might  be, 
behind  it  was  black,  so  I  concluded  to  plod  on  with  stern  resolve 
for  a  staff  and  melancholy  for  a  companion.  It  was  instinct, 
rather  than  fear,  the  instinct  of  prudence  which  guides  all  beings 
and  makes  them  clear-sighted  in  danger.  I  resolved  to  quit  the 
place  at  once  and  stand,  not  upon  the  order  of  my  going,  but  like 
Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  go  at  once. 

Accordingly,  I  injected  an  extraordinarily  copious  "shot"  of 
morphine,  blended  with  a  homeopathic  quantum  of  cocaine,  and 
I  slyly  slid  out  of  that  house  forever. 

Before  I  was  Dr.  Jekyll,  the  creative ;  now  I  was  his  alter  ego, 
Mr.  Hyde,  the  resolvent  soul. 

Gaining  the  street,  a  new  difficulty  arose,  that  of  meeting  up 
with  the  village  constable  or  night  watch.  I  looked  up  at  the 
patient  and  untroubled  stars,  and  I  observed  one  shoot  across  the 
twinkling  field.  Was  this  an  omen,  I  thought  of  honey  or  gall, 
bale  or  bliss  ?  I  bounced  forward  into  the  ocean  of  darkness  and 
without  impediment  or  error,  I  made  my  way.  Providence 
favored  me,  as  I  met  no  meddlesome  patrol,  and  my  cushioned 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


135 


tread  was  inaudible.  After  having  goose-stepped  it  to  the  rail- 
road depot,  I  grabbed  the  last  car  of  a  Grand  Trunk  Express 
train,  which  was  slowly  moving  out  of  the  yards  and  within  an 
hour  hurtled  into  Windsor.  From  this  Canadian  town,  I  crossed 
the  ferry  to  Detroit.  From  the  automobile  city,  I  nestled  myself 
upon  the  11  trucks"  of  a  passenger  car  bound  for  Chicago,  the 
pocket  edition  of  hell.  As  I  rode  into  the  Windy  City  the  morn- 
ing was  opening  her  golden  gates.  The  dawn  came  with  violet 
deepening  into  purple,  with  purple  flushing  into  rose,  with  rose 
shining  into  silver  and  glowing  into  gold.  In  the  disordered 
pageant  of  struggling  people  with  which  Chicago  abounds,  I 
drifted  out  of  my  own  life  in  its  restless  tide ;  a  tide  which  domi- 
nated, thrilled  and  pulsated  with  the  perpetual  throb  of  the 
demon  of  hurry  and  unrest.  I  struggled  on,  avoiding  the  living 
torrent,  and  but  for  hope,  I  should  have  willingly  lain  down  and 
suffered  the  multitude  to  trample  me  into  the  grave. 

Procuring  a  morning  paper,  I  noticed  in  the  telegraph  col- 
umns an  account  of  this  death  in  the  village  referred  to.  It  was 
true  even  to  details — that  the  body  was  found  in  his  room,  that 
he  had  died  from  asphyxiation  due  to  morphine  poisoning,  caus- 
ing paralysis  of  the  chest  muscles  and  that  his  companion  of  the 
day  previous  to  his  death  had  suddenly  faded  from  the  scene. 

This  intelligence  descended  upon  me  with  thundering  em- 
phasis. As  I  strolled  along  the  streets  and  gazed  into  the  phan- 
tasmagoria of  faces,  I  thought  that  I  heard  the  interrogation 
' '  What  hast  thou  done  with  thy  brother  Abel  ? ' '  pierce  the  fear- 
ful hollow  of  my  ears.  But  I  actually  laughed  aloud  at  the 
comedy,  to  the  consternation  of  the  passers  by,  and  I  actually 
ejaculated  in  no  low  whisper  "Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?" 

I  heard  my  name  called  by  a  voice  familiar  to  me  in  a  crowded 
street.  I  turned  short  round  and  saw  the  face  of  my  victim  look- 
ing at  me  with  a  fixed  gaze.  From  that  moment  I  had  no  peace ; 
at  all  hours,  in  all  places  and  amidst  all  companies,  however  en- 
gaged I  might  be,  I  heard  the  voice  and  could  never  help  look- 
ing round  and  whenever  I  so  looked  round,  I  always  encountered 
the  same  face  staring  close  upon  me.  At  last,  in  a  mood  of 
desperation,  I  had  fixed  myself  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye,  and 
deliberately  drawn  the  phantom  visage  as  it  glared  upon  me. 
And  as  the  white  lightning  leaps  thru  the  dull  void  of  midnight 
and  shows  for  one  dazzling  second  some  long-remembered 
country,  ashine  in  every  leaf  and  detail  to  the  startled  pilgrim, 
and  then  is  gone  with  all  the  ghostly  mirage  of  its  passage,  so, 
in  that  surprising  moment  so  full  of  import  the  picture  of  the 
murdered  one  rose  in  my  mind  and  was  imprinted  on  the  retina 
of  my  eyes.    And  angry  with  myself  and  that  immaterial  shade 


136 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


which  stood  and  hung  its  head  before  me,  I  stroked  my  hand 
across  my  face  to  rid  me  of  the  fancy,  and,  gathering  myself  to- 
gether made  my  bow,  murmuring  something  fiercely  civil  and 
turned  my  back  upon  it.  For  days  and  days  it  haunted  me,  even 
tho'  I  laughed  it  to  scorn.  The  leer  of  the  dead  man  repeatedly 
came  back  to  me  with  a  new  significance.  I  snapped  my  fingers 
as  if  to  pluck  up  my  own  spirits,  and,  choosing  a  street  at  ran- 
dom, I  stepped  boldly  forward  and  found  myself  in  "West  Madi- 
son street. 

Was  all  of  this  a  figment  conjured  up  in  my  excited  brain  ? 

Yet  I  was  the  common  quarry  of  mankind,  hunted,  houseless, 
a  known  murderer.  I  knew  that  the  scarlet  thread  of  murder 
ran  thru  the  colorless  skein  of  my  life.  I  was  haunted  by  the 
ghostly  fear  of  the  touch  upon  the  shoulder,  of  the  ecce  homo  of 
the  police.  Should  the  worst  come,  I  speculated  upon  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  shipwreck  of  my  reason.  The  heaviness  and  guilt 
within  my  bosom  took  off  my  manhood.  In  a  mighty  effort  to 
dispel  fear,  I  reflected  with  Macbeth :  1 '  To  know  my  deed,  'twere 
best  not  know  myself,"  and  seeing  the  reflection  of  a  sunset  in 
a  glass  of  ruddy  wine,  I  gave  myself  over  to  a  whirpool  of 
drunken  orgies  among  West  Madison  Street 's  lowest  dives.  And 
so  the  memory  of  this  crime  passed  away  like  the  stain  of  breath 
upon  a  mirror  and  I  became  Dr.  Jekyll  once  more. 

My  riotous  conscience  has  rehearsed  this  episode  a  thousand 
times  since  its  happening  sixteen  years  ago,  and  I  here  unfold 
it  to  the  reader  in  the  hope  that  absolution  may  come  to  a  way- 
ward and  unhappy  heart,  before  the  rays  of  my  destiny  are  gath- 
ering to  a  focus,  and  I  creep  into  my  sepulchre  and  pass  back 
to  carbon  dioxide,  water  vapor  and  mineral  salts. 


CHAPTER  XV 


IN  THE  SEWERS  OF  HELL 


"Let's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms  and  epitaphs, 
Make  dust  our  paper  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  oosom  of  the  earth." 

— King  Richard  II. 

Has  the  soul  a  previous  existence? 

Are  we  feeble  worms  of  earth,  frail  children  of  the  dust,  mere 
blobs  of  pulp? 

Have  we  existed  from  eternity,  or  are  we  the  offspring  of 
chance  ? 

Is  life  a  vapor  which  appears  for  a  time  and  then  vanishes 
away? 

Are  the  dead  really  dead? 

I  wonder  and  the  world  wonders. 

I  am  an  open  scoffer  of  latter-day  orthodoxy.  I  am  a  firm 
believer  in  the  philosophies  didactically  enunciated  by  Coper- 
nicus, Humboldt,  Montaigne,  Helmholtz,  Spinoza,  Calvini, 
Comte,  Galileo,  Kepler,  Flamstead,  Spencer  and  LaPlace.  These 
scientists  whispered  heresy  in  my  ear,  and  since  arrival  at  the 
age  of  intellectual  capacity,  mellowed  by  the  stealing  hours  of 
time,  and  able  to  dispose  of  the  riddle  of  the  cosmos,  comprising 
the  absorbing  questions  of  the  mysteries  of  existence,  the  hidden 
powers  which  nature  manifests  to  us,  the  origin  of  destiny  of 
the  human  soul,  biology  and  evolution  and  mosaic  cosmology  to 
an  approving  conscience,  I  have  refuted  the  orthodox  dictum  of 
the  soul's  survival  after  the  extinction  of  the  corporal  entity. 
I  do  not  believe  that  all  on  earth  is  shadow,  and  all  beyond  is 
substance  without  change.  In  other  words,  I  do  not  believe  that 
the  soul  is  the  perfect  individuum,  Plato  and  Cicero  tout  au  con- 
traire.  The  liberal  and  the  rationalist  endorse  this  theory,  and 
yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  believe  in  an  eternal  king  of 
heaven,  the  animist  and  the  materialist  only  differing  as  to  the 
kind  of  king,  one  a  god  of  vengeance,  the  other  a  god  of  love. 


138 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


The  materialism  of  Epictetus,  Condillac  and  DesCartes  is  sound 
practical  philosophy  for  one  who  has  sipped  every  joy  and  drank 
deep  of  every  sorrow,  who  has  been  seared  with  a  burning  brand 
and  lived  the  unholy  life  of  a  dope  fiend,  and  this  is  substantially 
that  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate  and  I  make  the  declaration  with 
sledge-hammer  assertiveness  that  I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 
This  is  intellectual  liberty. 

I  believe  that  one  drop  of  water  is  as  wonderful  as  all  the 
seas,  one  leaf  as  all  the  forests  and  one  grain  of  sand  as  all  the 
stars. 

I  have  lived  among  the  shadows ;  now  I  am  in  the  sun. 

God,  if  he  exists,  cannot  be  offended  with  my  doubts,  which 
are  but  an  avowal  of  my  ignorance;  I  would  guard  myself 
against  denying  the  existence  of  God,  but  I  cannot  sincerely  and 
coldly  affirm  it. 

It  is  wonderful  that  great  thinkers  discuss  with  sophistica- 
tion the  mysteries  of  transcendentalism,  and  are  conspicuously 
silent  about  the  world  some  say  we  came  from.  And  still  the 
wonder  grows,  if  these  wonderful  qualities  which  house  to-day  in 
this  mortal  frame  shall  ever  reassemble  in  equal  activity  in  a 
similar  frame,  or  whether  they  have  before  had  a  natural  history 
like  that  of  the  body.  Those  who  doubt  a  future  state  have  no 
hesitancy  in  accepting  a  previous  one  which  has  survived  in  the 
belief  of  all  ages. 

Many  times  have  I  discussed  with  investigators  the  strange 
phenomena  in  nature  which  manifests  in  organized  beings  sub- 
jectively as  thought,  feeling,  and  things  spiritual,  and  also  dis- 
cussed the  possibility  and  also  the  probability  of  an  existence  of 
the  spiritual  part  of  man  after  death,  and  the  cases  of  strange 
phenomena  that  tended  to  prove  the  indestructibility  of  matter 
or  spirit,  and  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  walk  again.  Yet,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  it  is  unlikely  that  we  shall  ever 
meet  again. 

My  faith  in  materialism  was  rudely  shattered  and  came  within 
an  ace  of  being  finally  overthrown,  by  a  singular  experience  that 
iced  my  blood  and  maddened  me  to  the  very  intoxication  of  in- 
sanity, by  the  weird  and  ghoulish  incantations  and  the  sinister 
antics  of  bogles  and  other  uncanny  shapes  a  few  years  since 
within  the  confines  of  commercial  activity. 

I  give  here  an  illustration  of  the  power  to  summon  from  the 
realms  of  the  invisible,  the  shades  of  departed  souls.  It  is  a 
strange  and  marvelous  case  of  psychic  phenomena,  and  ought  to 
appeal  to  the  romantic  fibre  of  those  who  believe  in  demonology 
and  witchcraft,  and  to  those  who  do  not  believe  that  spirits  oper- 
ate by  natural  law.    As  I  write  this  bugaboo  tale,  and  conjure 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


139 


up  threatening  forms  from  another  world,  the  facts  haunt  me  as 
a  dark  rebus  and  my  pulses  still  throb  with  the  recollection  of  it. 
I  set  them  down  not  for  the  purpose  of  detailing  a  mystery  or  of 
penning  a  romance,  and  I  am  willing  to  arrogate  to  the  reader 
the  right  to  conclude  as  to  the  extraordinary  revelations  being 
true  in  fact,  or  came  as  the  aftermath  of  a  diseased  mentality, 
producing  a  "brain  storm"  or  mirage  of  the  mind,  resulting 
from  the  excesses  of  a  confirmed  inebriate  and  chronic  mor- 
phinomaniac  combined.  Or  had  I  one  of  those  incomprehensible 
nervous  shocks,  one  of  those  affections  of  the  brain  which  dwarf 
the  miracles  to  which  the  supernatural  owes  its  power?  Or 
might  I  not  have  been  the  dupe  of  my  own  excited  fancy  or  the 
victim  of  an  imposture  in  others? 

Lockport  is  a  town  of  some  civic  proportions,  the  population 
numbering  some  30,000  souls  and  so  called  because  there  are  built 
here  extensive  locks  for  the  passage  of  small  craft  upon  the  Erie 
Canal.  The  town  is  located  in  northwestern  New  York,  some 
of  the  present  denizens  being  lineal  descendents  of  the  old  Hol- 
land Dutch  and  Knickerbocker  blood.  While  evidences  abound 
showing,  commercial  advancement  due  to  the  fabrications  of 
human  ingenuity,  the  suggestions  of  experience  and  the  inven- 
tion of  fancy,  together  with  the  general  spirit  of  modern  progres- 
sion in  this  workaday  world,  and  while  these  are  quite  noticeable 
in  the  architecture  of  the  town  and  in  general  civic  reform,  yet 
ample  landmarks  remain  to  remind  one  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
and  the  antiquity  of  generations  long  mouldered  in  the  dust  of 
the  ages. 

It  was  the  prevailing  custom  in  the  early  epochs  in  disposing 
of  the  dead,  to  inter  the  bodies  in  plots  within  the  limits  of  com- 
mercial traffic,  after  the  vogue  which  prevailed  in  European 
countries  for  ages,  where  even  now,  in  this  the  golden  dawn  of  the 
twentieth  century,  may  be  visualized  these  sacred  parterres, 
nestled  within  the  throbbing  pulse  of  the  marts  of  commerce. 

Lockport  has  at  least  one  of  these  parterres — acres  of  God — 
encircled  by  the  usual  iron  fence,  tesselated  and  worked  in  ara- 
besque of  a  gloomy  tincture  and  eloquent  with  tombs,  mildewed 
and  discolored  with  age,  aureoled  with  rosettes  of  lichen  and 
bearded  with  savage  moss.  Its  stone  pillars  and  iron  gates  are 
laced  with  ivy,  weeds  are  damp  from  rankness  and  the  antiquated 
necropolis  is  otherwise  indelibly  stained  by  the  touch  of  time, 
altho'  at  the  time  I  write,  was  still  used  as  a  place  of  burial. 

It  was  one  auroral  morning  in  June  that  I  descended  upon 
this  town  from  Buffalo  after  a  heavy  train  of  mishaps  and  re- 
verses at  cards  in  the  latter  metropolis.  I  offer  the  soft  impeach- 
ment of  having  for  some  protracted  period  prior  to  my  arrival, 


140 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


followed  the  sporting  life  there,  resorting  to  the  hollow  ways  of 
intrigue,  living  in  the  saps,  and  in  addition,  I  consigned  myself 
utterly  to  a  revelry  of  wine  and  wassail  and  song.  I  fell  from 
the  gentlemanly  estate  and  sought  acquaintance  and  consorted 
with  the  vilest  arts  of  the  gambler  by  profession,  and  won  at 
cards  as  the  fruit  of  the  natural  percentage  which  always  favors 
the  professional  player  of  odds  who  lets  the  other  fellow  do  the 
guessing.  Having  become  an  adept  in  this  despicable  science, 
I  blossomed  out  as  a  short  card  sport  and  practiced  this  and  the 
art  of  winning  with  loaded  dice  and  " shoving  the  queer"  habitu- 
ally as  a  means  of  increasnig  my  means  at  the  expense  of  novices 
who  believed  that  there  were  five  aces  in  a  poker  deck.  These 
reckless  orgies  of  self-indulgence  included  addiction  to  the  dele- 
terious, but  calming  juice,  the  boa-constrictor  morphine.  At  the 
time  I  was  surfeited  with  liquor  and  dope,  and  on  my  person  I 
carried  a  small  cargo  of  the  drug.  I  also  possessed  some  velvet 
with  which  to  blow  myself  in  a  final  pianissimo  of  fast  spending 
and  continue  my  long  spell  of  frolic.  Thus  did  I  proclaim  my- 
self to  the  unsuspecting  villagers,  and  thus  did  I  plunge  into  a 
maelstrom  of  dissipation  in  their  midst. 

•  Conviviality  is  a  lever  that  sucks  into  its  vampire  maw  the 
submerged  tenth,  and  I  stuck  to  the  cesspools.  Here  I  met  a 
bevy  of  lack-lustre  eyed  ' 1  soaks ' '  and  human  odds  and  ends,  some 
low-brows,  others  high-brows,  that  littered  about  the  bars  along 
the  canal  front.  Some  of  these  were  cheated  of  feature  by  dis- 
sembling nature;  others  were  stamped  with  a  melancholy  gaze. 
Their  looks  told  of  many  blighted  hopes.  Their  skins  were  full 
of  wine.  There  were  drunkards,  inarticulate  and  reeling,  with 
bruised  visages,  filthy  garments,  unsteady  swagger,  thick  sensual 
lips  and  hearty  looking,  rubicund  faces,  all  full  of  an  inordinate 
vivacity  which  jarred  discordantly  on  the  ear,  and  gave  an  ach- 
ing sensation  to  the  heart.  In  this  grotesque  conglomeration 
of  the  undertow  of  the  genus  homo  I  singled  out  the  human 
debris,  some  of  them  black-rouged  with  care,  others  gray-pow- 
dered with  hunger.  The  disintegrating  force  could  be  traced 
upon  the  facial  defiles,  the  sodden  visage,  the  hunted  look.  In 
their  faces  was  all  the  dumb  pathos  of  the  wounded  and  hunted 
animal.  There  were  worn  and  hard  faces  with  no  calm  or  peace 
in  the  expression;  the  harsh  lines  and  furrows  spoke  of  foiled 
ambition  and  smarting  vanity;  and  thereby  hangs  many  a  mov- 
ing, dramatic  and  tragic  history  of  gradual  descent  from  the 
"Hupper  Succles"  to  the  lowest  depths. 

The  great  mass  are  divided  into  two  distinct  groups;  one 
group  represents  savagery,  the  other  angels  of  God. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


141 


The  face  is  the  index  of  the  mind;  the  lion  is  known  by  its 
claws. 

These  derelicts  constituted  the  driftwood  of  humanity.  They 
were  human  discards,  human  zeros.  Some  were  replicas  of  sin 
itself,  with  the  criminal  ear  and  the  degenerate  chin.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  they  knew  nothing  of  the  marbles  of  Greece,  the 
stones  of  Venice,  the  poems  of  Shakespeare  or  the  music  of 
Wagner. 

This  is  the  class  that  I  permitted  to  touch  the  hem  of  my  gar- 
ment, and  into  whose  confidence  I  surrendered  my  generosity 
and  with  whom  I  collaborated  in  the  unloading  of  " schooners" 
with  belly  to  the  bar.  I  moralize  that  in  the  tow  of  such  a  con- 
federation they  not  only  got  my  velvet,  but  they  came  very  near 
getting  my  ram.  It  is  a  paradox  that  men  of  mental  cultivation 
and  those  who  love  the  loftier  virtues,  sometimes  fall  from  grace 
and  glue  themselves  to  these  human  dregs  and  dangerous  alli- 
ances. The  explanation  of  it  is  as  enigmatical  as  the  flux  of  all 
things.  As  well  might  one  expect  a  graven  image  to  tell  how  an 
oyster  makes  its  shell  or  explain  the  cause  of  thunder. 

These  afternoon  farmers  were  moneyless  men;  therefore  it 
was  up  to  me  to  do  the  honors.  In  this  dispensation,  I  was  sen- 
sibly impressed  with  the  precise  punctuality  which  characterized 
their  movements  when  a  round  of  drinks  was  ordered ;  but  I  was 
not  impressed  with  wonder  when  by  dint  of  a  succession  of  these 
invitations,  the  whole  company  rapidly  gravitated  to  a  condition 
of  maudlin  intoxication.  Thru  it  all,  I  was  becoming  somewhat 
mellow  myself,  altho'  I  still  retained  the  capacity  to  pass  upon 
the  inebriety  of  my  fellows.  Pro  re  nata,  I  purposely  cheated 
myself  of  a  number  of  highballs  which  would  otherwise  have  gone 
under  my  belt,  and  these  were  by  me  deftly  consigned  to  the 
cuspidor  at  my  feet.  I  argued  that  I  had  the  fulness  of  the 
afternoon  before  me  within  which  to  get  dizzy,  and  that  if  I 
should  so  deceive  them  and  so  send  them  under  the  table  first, 
I  could  sail  before  the  wind  to  the  king  row.  These  precaution- 
ary measures  germinated  from  a  consideration  of  the  fact  that 
drug  fiends  are  wary  of  being  found  out.  I  was  sensible  of  the 
stubborn  truth  that  the  most  remote  or  hobbling  suspicion  would 
subject  me  to  impalement  upon  the  nail  of  obloquy  and  I  knew 
that  the  slow,  unmoving  finger  of  scorn  would  point  to  me,  and 
these  embers  of  accusation  fanned  into  the  ultra  violet  rays  of 
inextricable  ostracism,  for  I  knew  then,  as  I  know  now,  that 
society  is  cruel,  relentless  and  unforgiving. 

As  the  hours  flew  past  on  the  wings  of  the  afternoon,  the 
party  of  bar  flies,  wall  lizards  and  barrel-house  bums  became 
swine  drunk,  which  condition  sent  them  finally  to  the  floor. 


142 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


After  this  I  kept  alternating  from  one  dive  to  another  until 
nightfull,  during  which  time  I  must  have  eloquently  practiced 
at  the  bar,  for  I  became  aware  of  my  own  condition,  altho' 
steeped  in  morphine  besides.  To  be  true  to  the  record,  I  was 
potted  in  wine  to  the  very  brink  of  aphasia,  but  had  enough 
mother- wit  left  to  hie  me  far  from  the  madding  crowd. 

My  higher  sense  dictated  that  I  ramble  out  to  some  grassy 
plot  somewhere  in  the  environs  of  Lockport,  lie  down  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  and  surrender  myself  to  the  unspeakable  sweat- 
ing dreams  of  the  opium  eater,  and  enjoy  the  visions  that  come 
to  one  from  the  subtle  poison  while  in  its  deadening  clasp. 

I  hazily  recall  having  quitted  the  saloons  along  the  canal 
front;  of  having  crossed  the  canal  locks;  of  having  sauntered 
past  residences  from  which  gleamed  the  evening  light,  of  having 
trudged  along  a  smooth  highway  beneath  the  black  arch  of  night 
as  a  keystone,  and  of  finally  lying  down  upon  a  soft  lap  of  earth, 
my  head  resting  upon  a  vagrant  hillock  of  sod. 

I  must  have  slumbered  but  fitfully,  superinduced  by  the  joint 
dominion  of  opium  and  ale,  for  I  awoke  in  dreadful  starts  from 
the  inexpressible  fantasies  that  visit  one  from  morphine  poison- 
ing and  an  internal  sudorific  of  "knock-out  drops."  I  was 
hunted  down  thru  the  dark  alleys  of  sleep  by  hydra-headed  mon- 
sters with  fiery  eyes  and  slimy  tentacula,  bedizened  in  cruel, 
violent  colors  that  filled  me  with  unreasoning  fear.  I  was  con- 
scious that  I  was  dreaming  of  slowly  sinking  down  into  the 
wormy  earth  among  dead  men's  bones  and  all  uncleanness,  to 
the  very  sewers  of  hell. 

About  this  time  my  sensibilities  were  aroused  by  hearing  a 
sound  like  unto  a  muffled  thud  upon  the  ground  near  my  feet, 
my  hair  oozy  with  terror,  my  flesh  glazed  as  with  a  coating  of 
thin  ice.  The  moon  shed  a  phosphorescent  lustre  that  glowed 
and  explored  even  the  silent  recesses  of  my  surroundings.  I 
mopped  my  eyes  for  clearer  vision,  and  there  beheld  in  abject 
terror  white  and  gray  tombstones  of  irregular  shape  that  littered 
about  zigzag  confusion  upon  every  hand.  I  was  chained  to  the 
spot,  and  I  shook  with  very  horror  as  the  quivering  plumes  upon 
the  hearse  as  I  observed  these  silent  sentinels  and  these  moulder- 
ing heaps. 

Instinctively  I  consulted  my  timepiece ;  it  was  a  few  minutes 
after  two  o  'clock  in  the  morning.  I  was  sitting  bolt  upright  and 
behind  me  was  a  grassy  grave — creation's  melancholy  vault.  This 
was  the  hillock  upon  which  my  head  rested  thru  the  earlier  hours. 
A  mossy  marble  rose  from  one  end  upon  which  I  could  read  the 
usual  hie  jacet,  and  below  the  stereotyped  requiescat  in  pace. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


143 


/  was  in  the  middle  of  an  old-time  cemetery  m  the  middle  of 
the  night. 

I  was  in  the  twilight  atmosphere  where  spirit  and  matter 
meet.  I  was  in  the  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom,  the 
land  of  apparitions  and  empty  shades,  a  jeweled  city  of  the  dead. 

I  sat  upon  a  fragment  of  turf,  embroidered  as  never  was 
kingly  portal,  with  my  hands  clasped  over  my  eyes  to  remove 
from  me  all  the  images  of  life  and  gave  way  to  that  involuntary 
mood  of  mind  in  which  ideas  come  and  press  in  crowds  without 
shape,  leaving  no  more  impression  than  the  drops  of  a  sunshower 
on  the  trees.  I  had  remained  long  in  this  half-dreaming  con- 
fusion and  had  almost  imagined  myself  transported  to  some  in- 
termediate realm,  when  the  evil  spirit  of  fear  took  hold  of  me  and 
I  removed  my  hands  from  over  my  eyes. 

My  perceptions  were  keenly  alive  to  the  surroundings.  The 
earth  heaved  into  little  billows  as  if  to  show  the  turbulence  of 
that  life  which  those  who  lay  below  them  had  lately  quitted. 
There  were  decrepid  and  bending  tombstones  lurching  at  every 
angle  or  deeply  sinking  into  the  deep  sea  of  f orgetfulness  around 
them.  Near  me  was  a  willow  tree,  where  the  graves  lie  close 
together  which  had  burst  into  tufted  plumes  in  the  fulness  of 
spring,  and  the  tall  grass  blades  over  each  mound  show  a  strange 
quickening  of  the  soil  below.  Here  and  there  are  never-failing 
garlands  of  immortelles,  with  their  sepulchral  spicery,  and  on 
the  tombs  are  the  usual  resurgam  and  other  carvings.  The 
simple  humility  of  these  carvings  counterbalances  all  sense  of 
the  ridiculous.  Over  the  graves  as  I  read,  the  scriptural  quota- 
tions are  pregnant  with  humanity  and  tenderness.  And  as  I 
see  the  gray  immortelles,  crowning  a  tombstone,  I  know  that  I 
shall  find  the  mysteries  of  the  resurrection  shown  rather  in  sym- 
bols and  only  the  love  taught  in  His  new  commandment  left  for 
the  graphic  touch. 

Off  in  one  corner  I  descried  certain  rude  wooden  crosses 
which  marked  the  burial  place  of  wanderers.  I  wot  not  pagan  or 
christian,  nameless  mounds  on  which  no  tears  are  wept,  no 
flowers  are  strewn  and  to  which  no  visitors  come.  It  was  Pot- 
ter's Field. 

So  far  as  I  knew  not  another  living,  sentient  being  was  there. 
Petrified  by  fear,  I  could  scarcely  move,  much  less  cry  out,  for 
I  was  afraid  of  my  own  voice.  A  vague  and  impalpable  sense 
of  restraint  and  captivity  seemed  closing  me  in  on  every  side. 
I  was  imprisoned,  I  thought,  within  invisible  walls,  solid  walls 
as  old  as  the  world.  The  moon  was  lying  on  masses  of  cloud 
like  a  queen  pillowed  on  cushions  of  silver  which  showed  me  in 
its  indistinct  illumination,  every  object  as  plunged  in  that  ob- 


144 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


scurity  so  awful  in  deserts  and  still  moreso  in  that  cemetery. 
At  this  time  an  untoward  rattle  reached  my  sensibilities  from 
the  rear,  and,  obeying  a  mechanical  instinct,  I  risked  a  turn  of 
the  head,  and  away  in  the  farther  corner  I  beheld  a  ghostly  shape 
wrapped  in  filmy  tunics,  which  I  readily  perceived  were  the 
cerements  of  the  tomb.  It  danced  before  me  in  sepulchral  glee, 
courtesied  in  an  ecstasy  of  Terpsichorean  bedivelment,  and  with 
a  sweeping  swish,  vanished  to  its  vault  of  clay,  emitting  a  death 
rattle  as  it  sunk  to  its  depths,  that  tied  up  the  circulation  and  re- 
fused the  ruddy  drops  a  visit  to  the  craven  cheek.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  cervical  muscles  performed  their  office,  and, 
mechanically  I  looked  straight  before  me  and  there,  before  my 
terror-stricken  orbs,  not  one,  but  a  legion  of  grinning  skeletons 
executed  fantastic  gyrations  representing  the  evolutions  of  the 
dance  of  death,  with  the  precision  of  a  last  rehearsal. 

And  now  as  the  moon  was  stripped  of  her  misty  vestiture, 
the  ponderous  and  marble  jaws  of  all  the  coffins  seemed  opened 
and  from  each  issued  the  faint,  phosphoric  radiance  of  decay, 
so  that  I  could  see  into  the  innermost  recesses,  and  there  perceive 
the  shrouded  corpses  in  their  sad  and  solemn  slumbers  with  the 
worm.  From  out  the  countless  pits  there  came  a  melancholy 
rustling  of  the  garments  of  the  buried.  They  were  shrouded  in 
unmouldered  winding  sheets,  some  shrouded  all  in  white  with 
boundup  mouths,  some  naked  and  black  as  ebony.  Silent  figures 
wrapped  in  shadow  flickered  vaguely  thru  the  gloom.  They 
flitted  in  and  about  the  tombs  and  ancient  sarcophagi,  ruined 
and  empty,  in  demoniacal  abandon  and  with  minatory  fingers 
pointed  to  me  as  if  pronouncing  a  memento  mori.  Death's 
heads,  jawless  skulls  and  rough -butted  shank  bones  without 
number  rose  on  every  hand,  seemingly  inoculated  with  the  vol- 
taic pile.  Like  the  Babylonian  finger  on  the  wall  it  seemed  that 
they  were  spelling  out  the  letters  of  my  judgment.  The  scene 
was  truly  a  Golgotha. 

As  every  man  is  under  a  sealed  sentence  of  death,  I  thought 
that  my  time  had  come.  It  was  if  a  summons  had  come  out  of 
the  grave  and  I  began  to  think  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
My  sensitive  soul  had  vague  yearnings  for  the  infinite. 

The  next  sensation  was  the  sound  of  something  resembling 
that  of  a  lethal  missile  thrown  high  in  the  air  and  gaining 
momentum  in  its  accelerated  descent,  reached  the  ground,  gave 
forth  a  muffled  thud.  I  thought  that  the  sod  began  to  move 
and  I  with  it.  I  endeavored  to  shriek  and  my  lips  and  my 
parched  tongue  moved  convulsively  together  in  the  attempt,  but 
no  voice  issued  from  the  cavernous  lungs,  which,  oppressed  by 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


145 


the  weight  of  some  incumbent  mountain,  gasped  and  palpitated 
with  the  heart  at  each  elaborate  and  struggling  inspiration. 

I  was  streaming  from  every  pore  in  cold  perspiration,  and 
in  a  delirium  of  fear,  I  mopped  my  frigid  brow. 

Fear  is  an  atrocious  sensation — a  sort  of  decomposition  of 
the  soul,  a  terrible  spasm  of  brain  and  heart. 

As  my  hand  descended  to  my  side,  it  struck  against  a  hard 
substance  and  broke  welcome  news.  I  remembered  that  it  was 
a  flask  of  whisky,  a  preparedness  desideratum  for  hot-box  event- 
ualities. 

Flushed  with  hope  that  I  could  by  means  of  this  agency  re- 
lease myself  from  the  perilous  predicament  in  which  I  discov- 
ered myself,  I  nervelessly  wrested  it  from  the  inside  pocket  of 
my  coat,  drew  the  cork  and  took  a  most  murderous  drink.  I 
was  goaded  to  insanity  by  the  osseous  sounds  that  punctured  the 
ether  and  the  invisible  instrumentalities  that  shook  the  sod  and 
now  waited  for  a  revival  of  my  nerve.  This  force  became  at 
once  assertive,  and  believing  that  one  of  such  drinks  was  cap- 
able of  good  results,  I  slammed  another  drink  under  my  surcingle 
and  by  the  blood  of  Holy  Paul  and  the  jumping  Jerusalem,  I 
was  resolved  to  get  out  of  the  dread  cemetery  with  tooth  and 
nail,  with  hands  and  feet,  with  claws  and  beak  or  fight  the  imps 
and  demons  of  hell.  It  was  aut  vincere,  aut  mori.  I  made  a 
plunge  forward,  leaped  over  mounds  of  earth  and  threaded  my 
way  thru  a  maze  of  tombstones  in  a  demoniacal  race  to  gain  the 
iron  fence.  In  my  precipitate  rush  forward,  I  stumbled  upon 
some  uncertain  obstructions  and  fell,  belly-up,  into  an  open 
grave.  A  metallic  sound  riposted  from  this  impact,  and  I  be- 
came aware  of  the  fact  that  I  was  prostrate  upon  a  recently 
lowered  coffin,  presumably  containing  fresh  fish.  I  clambered 
out  of  this  like  a  bat  out  of  the  furnace  of  hell,  and  made  for 
the  fence,  believing  all  the  while  that  I  could  sense  the  breath 
of  a  legion  of  bad  spirits  upon  me  as  they  maddened  me  to  in- 
creased speed  by  their  deadened  footfalls.  It  seemed  as  if  stark 
and  rigid  forms  thickened  round  me  and  crossed  my  legs  at 
every  turn.  I  took  the  bit  in  my  teeth  and  cleared  the  fence  with 
the  agility  of  an  acrobat,  and  felt  safe  from  the  fiends,  now  that 
I  was  on  the  open  road. 

As  there  comes  an  end  to  all  things  and  as  the  most  capa- 
cious measure  is  at  last  filled,  the  climax  may  be  narrated  in 
few  words. 

From  that  cemetery  of  departed  shades  and  pallid  ghosts, 
where  ghouls  and  charmless  apparitions  cavorted  in  fustian  robes 
in  all  the  ghastliness  of  spirits  burst  from  their  sepulchres, 
where  the  rattle  of  death's  heads  penetrated  the  ether  of  the 


146 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


night  portentous  of  a  rebellion  in  Hades,  I  fled,  in  superstitious 
terror,  with  the  agility  of  Atlanta.  As  I  ran,  the  sweet  moist  air 
of  the  morning  was  like  an  elixir  to  my  heated  frame.  Down 
that  open  road  I  plunged,  while  a  thousand  fancies  danced 
around  me.  My  sinews  bore  me  stiffly  up  and  while  galloping 
along  the  highway,  my  startled  vision  perceived  the  outlines  of 
several  forms  silhouetted  against  the  matutinal  vapors  and  these 
immediately  took  up  the  chase.  Nerved  by  the  booze  just  taken, 
and  resolved  to  outpoint  my  pursurers  nolens  volens,  and  whom 
I  had  reason  to  believe  were  of  the  number  with  whom  I  had 
associated  on  yesterday,  I  redoubled  my  speed  and  maintained 
this  until  I  rushed  breathlessly  into  the  first  place  displaying  a 
light,  which  I  afterwards  ascertained  was  police  headquarters. 
Here  I  fell  upon  the  floor,  smitten  by  the  lethargy  of  lipothymy. 
I  know  not  how  long  my  encephalic  economy  was  stunned,  but 
I  do  know  that  when  I  came  to,  the  candles  of  the  night  had 
burned  out  and  jocund  day  stood  tiptoe  on  the  rim.  The  couch 
upon  which  my  nerve-racked  body  lay  was  surrounded  by  uni- 
formed police,  who  put  the  stock  question  regarding  whence  I 
came. 

' 1  Gentlemen,  I  have  the  sensations  of  a  man  who  has  just 
attended  his  own  funeral, ' '  I  said.  ' ■  True  it  is  that  I  have  been 
to  Golgotha.  I  have  seen  such  sights  under  the  hallowed  tur- 
quoise sky,  as  would  freeze  the  blood  of  mortal  man.  I  have 
seen  the  canonized  bones  of  men  long  hearsed  in  death  and 
shrouded  in  the  draperies  of  the  grave,  burst  from  their  cere- 
ments and  rise  from  their  pits  of  clay.  I  have  been  strangled 
by  the  breath  of  shades  long  inured  in  the  musty  cloisters  of 
eternal  sleep.  I  have  just  left  subterrene  cloacas,  and  where  - 1 
mingled  with  the  Conqueror  Worm,  in  the  very  sewers  of  hell. ' ' 

So  saying,  I  snatched  from  a  secret  recess  of  my  clothing, 
the  morphine  layout  and  prepared  a  solution  of  the  peerless 
nepenthe.  Under  the  very  eyes  of  the  police  stationed  about, 
I  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  my  coat  and  into  the  flesh  of  my  left 
arm,  which  of  course  showed  innumerable  purplish  punctures, 
I  suddenly  slipped  the  little  sting  of  steel,  sweeter  than  the  first 
kiss  of  love  to  the  innocent. 

I  tore  out  of  Lockport  without  ceremony,  first  calling  upon 
the  immortal  gods  to  witness  my  unquenchable  pledge  never 
to  have  my  ticket  punched  for  this  Jonah  town  again,  even 
should  I  outlive  the  everlasting,  heaven-kissing  hills  and  this  old 
earth  become  a  heaven  and  all  men  angels. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  LITTLE  BLIND  GIRL 


"Or  Hubert,  if  you  will  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes,  0  spare  mine  eyes, 
Tho'  to  no  use  but  to  look  on  you." 

— King  John. 

On  a  sultry  June  morning  full  of  glowing  poetry,  I  took 
passage  on  a  river  boat  at  Marietta,  Ohio,  due  to  arrive  in  Wheel- 
ing, West  Virginia,  the  following  morning.  To  the  farthest 
reaches,  the  day  blazed  clear  as  a  blue  diamond  in  the  smart 
spring  sunshine.  Landings  lined  both  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and 
more  time  was  actually  expended  in  discharging  and  taking  on 
freight  than  in  the  propulsion  of  the  vessel  thru  its  saffron 
waters.  It  was  berry  picking  time  and  the  transportation  of 
this  product  constituted  the  major  part  of  the  cargo.  I  was  the 
single  passenger  on  board. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  this  day — a  day  suffi- 
cient to  make  an  old  man  young  again  or  force  an  atheist  to  be- 
lieve in  God, — our  vessel  moored  at  the  landing  of  an  unpre- 
tentious town  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river.  A  traveled  high- 
way stretched  itself  from  the  boat  landing  up  the  hill  leading 
to  the  top  of  the  bluff,  and  was  there  lost  to  the  view  by  a  diver- 
sity of  overspreading  and  sheltering  arbors.  In  sheltered  nooks 
along  the  river  the  dogwoods  had  unfolded  the  heart  shaped 
petals  of  their  early  blossoms,  and  in  front  yards  the  lilac  bushes 
made  the  air  fragrant.  The  vivid  green  hills  were  aflame  with 
poppies  and  buttercups,  relieved  at  intervals  by  patches  of  blue 
lilies  and  purple  lupines,  and  here  and  there  were  cream  dappled 
laurustiums,  the  flowering  almond  with  its  shell-heart  of  pink, 
sallow  catkins,  yellow  gorse,  the  purple-red  deadnettle,  the  ruddy 
hued  fallaways  of  the  poplar,  the  laburnum  and  hawthorn. 

While  seate^  upon  a  capstan  observing  stevedores  engaged  in 
discharging  freight,  my  eyes  wandered  up  this  hill,  where  I  per- 
ceived two  figures  approaching  the  boat.    Distance  interferred 


148 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


with  my  power  to  size  them  up  to  a  fastidious  delicacy,  but  I 
found  out  as  they  came  closer  that  I  had  blundered  into  the  right, 
for  the  taller  was  an  elderly  lady,  the  other  a  little  girl  of  ten 
years  or  thereabouts.  They  were  governess  and  understudy. 
The  governess  seemed  a  matronly  old  girl  and  her  charge  filled 
all  voids.  She  held  a  beribboned  sunbonnet  of  sewed  straw  gar- 
nished with  oxlips  and  primroses,  with  its  long  white  strings. 
Her  auburn  hair  rippled  back  in  flowing  ringlets  down  her  back, 
and  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  a  young  and  rose-lipped  cher- 
ubim. Her  skin  rivaled  the  purest  ivory  and  the  red  flag  of 
health  was  unfurled  in  her  cheeks,  and  these  were  pink  as  al- 
mond blows.  There  was  a  saucy  dimple  imprisoned  in  her  cleft 
chin — a  chin  that  curved  upward  from  the  throat  like  the  round- 
ing calyx  of  a  flower.  Her  visage  was  immobile,  and  in  this 
repose  was  supremely  virginal.  She  seemed  as  delicate  as  a 
china  cup.  The  pure  outlines  of  her  shape  told  me  that  she 
came  from  heaven,  for  she  looked  like  an  angel  fallen  from  the 
skies,  or  a  spirit  that  a  breath  might  waft  away.  I  was  frozen 
to  the  spot  in  contemplative  adoration,  as  I  banqueted  upon  her 
baby  face.    She  presented  a  picture  of  purity  and  freshness. 

She  was  habited  in  a  gown  of  indescribably  harmonious  tex- 
ture and  pattern,  and  a  necklace  of  pure  pearls  encircled  her 
white  throat.  Her  footwear  consisted  of  little  pink  buskins, 
whose  ribbons  traced  an  X  on  her  white  open-worked  stockings. 

As  she  twirled  her  sunbonnet  to  and  fro,  her  face  betrayed 
grave  impassivity.  There  was  not  the  suggestion  of  a  sparkle 
on  it.  Some  lazy  minutes  passed,  during  which  time  her  gaze 
was  focused  upon  the  sand  at  her  feet.  Then,  on  the  instant, 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  even  the  opalescent  gleam  of 
the  sun  affected  her  not.  I  gazed  at  the  face  before  me  and 
stopped  with  a  sudden  constriction  of  heart.  I  began  to  smell 
the  truth. 

She  was  blind. 

Sensitive  as  I  am  by  nature  framed,  I  was  moved  by  com- 
passion for  this  unfortunate  child's  affliction,  and  I  concluded 
to  present  myself  to  the  duenna  to  ascertain  the  facts.  My 
journalistic  experience  in  the  past  was  an  ample  passport,  and 
I  would  approach  her  with  diplomatic  shrewdness.  I  knew  the 
rigid  decorum  practiced  in  the  exchange  of  polite  amenities;  I 
was  meticulously  groomed,  and  I  must  pose  a  I  'Italienne. 

With  a  feeble  smile  I  tried  to  introduce  the  subject  with 
classical  ease  and  lightness,  and  thus  break  down  any  barbwire 
entanglements  of  frigid  unapproachability.    I  said  ■ 

"Madam,  you  will  pardon  an  inquisitive  compatriot;  for  the 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


149 


past  few  moments  I  have  observed  your  companion.  Is  the  little 
girl  blind?" 

With  devotional  rapture  I  listened  to  her  reply,  which  came 
with  ingenuous  pleasantry  in  French : 

"Oui,  Monsieur,  elle  est  aveugle;  elle  a  eut  aussi  depuis  sa 
naissance  il  y  a  dix  amies." 

Following  the  cue  which  she  had  inaugurated  by  replying 
in  her  native  tongue,  I  humored  her  by  the  same  parlez-vous  and 
assured  her  that  my  interest  was  a  natural  one  as  a  paterfa- 
milias, and  incidentally  let  drop  the  reflection  that  blindness  was 
a  jumping  off  condition  and  the  most  dreadful  calamity  that 
could  afflict  any  feeble  worm  of  earth,  any  frail  child  of  the 
dust. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  the  reader  that  a  morphine  fiend 
could  be  sentimental  by  nature,  for  at  the  time  herein  referred 
to  I  was  a  chronic  slave  to  drugs  and  rum,  and  leading  a  life  that 
would  blanch  the  cheek  of  the  most  abject  voluptuary.  Yea, 
I  was  pickled  in  the  very  brine  of  hedonism.  Notwithstanding 
this  status,  I  was  not  devested  of  the  attribute  of  emotional  vol- 
canics.  And  I  believe  that  notwithstanding  the  condition  in  man 
of  downright  case-hardening  and  cankered  mind,  there  are 
chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  reckless  which  cannot  be  touched 
without  emotion.  Even  with  the  utterly  lost  to  whom  life  and 
death  are  topics  of  indolent  jest,  men  who  have  no  respect  for 
heaven  or  earth,  there  are  matters  of  which  no  jest  can  be  made. 

"To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows,  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

The  gouvernante  in  her  inimitable  Pyrenees  French,  revealed 
these  piquant  details: 

The  little  blind  girl  was  the  only  child  of  wealthy  parents 
who  had  recently  moved  from  Mississippi,  where  she  was  born. 
Her  father  had  been  a  planter  there,  and  journeying  North 
and  quite  content  to  entertain  the  lag  end  of  life  with  quiet 
hours,  purchased  an  estate  above  the  landing.  The  child  had 
been  brought  up  exclusively  at  home  in  the  simplicity  of  an  al 
fresco  life.  The  tenderness  and  indulgence  of  her  parents  was 
such  that  every  childish  whim  was  gratified,  and  there  was  ex- 
erted for  her  concerns  a  phenomenal  solicitude,  prompted  by  the 
parental  instinct;  and  I  was  assured  by  the  governess  that  a 
fortune  stood  at  the  disposal  of  science  in  the  restoration  of  her 
sight.    By  nature  precocious,  she  had  at  the  tender  age  of  ten 


150 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


years,  become  a  pianiste  of  remarkable  finesse  for  a  blind  girl, 
and  was  at  this  time  pursuing  a  semester  in  classics. 

To  be  blind  and  to  be  loved  is  one  of  the  most  strangely  ex- 
quisite forms  of  happiness  upon  this  earth,  where  nothing  is 
perfect. 

Notwithstanding  her  beauty — the  beauty  of  the  seraphim — 
infantile  loveliness  clothed  in  all  its  chivalrous  attributes  of 
almost  supernatural  purity  and  grace,  her  inexpressible  douceur 
of  carriage — her  inherent  precocity — I  say  that  notwithstanding 
all  of  these  attributes,  there  was  an  indefinable  something  lurk- 
ing within  her  psychic  makeup  tracing  the  melancholy  gaze,  the 
shy  reserve,  and  generating  the  pensive  abstraction  which  dis- 
tinguished her  every  movement.  She  seemed  immersed  in  a 
cataclysm  of  profound  musing.  Dull-eyed  melancholy  seemed 
her  sad  companion.  There  was  a  cloud  upon  that  alert,  yet 
pensive  face.  The  delicate  upward  slant  of  the  features  that 
nature  had  fashioned  so  joyously  like  the  petals  of  a  flower  held 
up  to  the  sun,  drooped  from  some  inward  blight.  There  was  a 
fantastic  quality  about  her — a  something  not  of  earth,,  but  of  the 
four  winds,  the  sky,  the  great  swept  places — that  gave  a  sort  of 
flying  quality  to  her  beauty,  like  that  of  some  empyreal  spirit 
one  might  grasp  for  a  moment  between  flights,  she  looked  so 
undarkened  by  earth's  mistakes  and  guilt.  Her  childish  inno- 
cence took  the  form  of  ideality,  purity  and  a  refinement  of  soul 
that  bade  her  seek  communion  with  things  above  this  earth.  She 
had  a  look  of  spirituality  and  seemed  surrounded  by  an  atmos- 
phere of  holiness.  She  had  the  sense  of  feeling  and  the  power  of 
speech ;  she  could  enjoy  the  flavor  of  the  honey  and  the  fragrance 
of  flowers,  and  she  could  hear  the  birds  vying  with  one  another 
in  singing  liquid  mating  songs  in  a  melody  of  love.  But,  alas! 
she  could  not  see !  She  was  bereft  of  the  heavenly  jewels  of 
sight,  with  which  to  behold  the  beauties  of  nature  and  the  glories 
of  art.  Could  it  therefore  be  possible  that  in  these  convulsions 
of  psychic  concentration  she  breathed  forth  brief  but  deep-toned 
lamentations  as  she  called  upon  the  god  of  her  blind  world? 

The  French  governess  informed  me  that  the  little  blind  girl's 
name  was  Floss,  and  I  at  once  became  inspired. 

' 1  Little  sunbonnet,  do  you  know  what  Floss  means  in  Latin  ? ' ' 
I  asked. 

The  languid  tilt  of  her  head  shifted  and  on  the  moment  her 
mellifluous  tongue,  pure  as  a  sky-lark 's,  answered  in  a  dolorosa : 
"A  Flower." 

Her  words  came  sweeter  to  me  than  the  murmur  of  a  sunny 
river,  and  I  replied: 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


151 


"Your  name  is  like  the  perfume  of  a  flower  and  your  per- 
sonality is  as  sweet  as  the  lily  it  suggests. ' ' 

"May  you  sail  with  the  tide,"  she  rejoined. 

Before  we  swung  away  from  our  moorings,  the  duenna  im- 
portuned the  little  blind  girl : 

"Dites  au-revoir  a  la  gentilhomme  etrange." 

1 1  Good-bye, '  •  she  said,  dropping  a  mechanical  courtesy,  ' '  and 
I  thank  you  for  the  Latin. ' ' 

"Good-bye;  the  labor  we  delight  in  physics  pain,"  I  said. 

Nothing  is  said  so  often  as  ' '  Good-bye. ' '  It  was  indeed  good- 
bye forever. 

Now,  the  above  facts  are  trite  and  prosy,  and  up  to  this  stage 
of  their  portrayal,  would  be  powerless  to  move  the  interest  or 
affect  the  imagination  of  the  ordinarily  speculative  and  impres- 
sionable mind,  and  they  doubtless  would  have  faded  into  the 
nimbus  of  obscurity,  were  it  not  for  certain  happenings  there- 
after recommending  them  to  public  perusal.  My  sole  apology 
for  embalming  them  to  the  immortality  of  literal  narration  may 
be  detected  in  the  luminosity  of  these  subsequent  events.  It  is 
my  sole  apology  for  this  long  introduction,  my  sole  excuse  for 
writing  this  chapter  and  the  genesis  of  this  veracious  story. 

Some  few  years  following  the  above  rencontre,  while  on  my 
way  East,  I  found  myself  within  reach  of  this  same  sleepy  old 
town.  It  was  the  same  genial,  auroral  month,  with  its  usual  rosy 
glow.  The  pulse  of  rejuvenated  nature  was  quickened,  and 
men's  voices  were  lifted  up  under  the  inspiration  of  summer. 
Vegetation  was  bursting  into  mellow  ripeness  under  the  kisses  of 
the  June  sun.  Arbors  bloomed  with  the  promise  of  a  yield  of 
succulent  fruit  and  the  vivid  green  hills  were  wrapped  to  the 
point  of  extravagance  in  a  display  of  floral  profusion.  There 
was  an  enchantment  about  this  locality  that  was  engraven  by  the 
footsteps  of  youth,  innocence  and  beauty. 

The  luscious  remembrance  of  the  incident  here  depicted  re- 
vived itself  in  my  sensibilities,  and  instinctively  I  inquired  about 
the  little  blind  girl. 

When  the  intelligence  came  that  she  had  been  fatally  struck 
by  a  bolt  of  lightning  the  autumn  previous,  I  was  petrified  with 
astonishment,  thunderstruck  with  emotion. 

This  little  flower,  then,  was  dead,  deflowered  and  sapped  of 
her  sweetness  and  died  with  the  flowers  of  the  field.  Since  my 
former  visit  some  immense  angel  had  stood  erect  with  wings  out- 
spread awaiting  that  soul.  I  mused  that  this  lovely  form  faded 
away  into  the  house  with  the  narrow  portal  and  her  soul  like  a 
silvered  dove,  winged  its  way  to  the  green  fields  of  Eden.  Here 
it  was  dowered  with  a  new  birth,  wherein  there  is  no  blindness, 


152 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


where  all  the  hosts  see  thru  a  divine  intelligence,  eternal  in  a 
blissful  immortality. 

I  gathered  together  some  flowers  and  walked  out  to  the  vil- 
lage cemetery.  Aided  by  the  village  sexton  I  found  her  grave,  a 
white  marble  cross.  Here  amid  children's  graves  with  guardian 
angels  of  great  specific  gravity,  rests  forever  the  ashes  of  the 
little  blind  girl.  I  paused,  and  placing  thereon  a  wreath  of  roses, 
lilies  and  azaleas,  blended  to  form  a  general  emblem  of  youthful 
mortality,  I  sweetened  the  velvet  turf  that  wrapped  the  prettiest 
flower  of  all,  and  retired  in  gloomy  contemplation  from  the 
place,  moralizing  on  the  flight  of  time,  the  fleeting  romance,  the 
lasting  tragedy  of  human  life  and  the  evanescence  of  all  earthly 
things. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


A  LATTER-DAY  DELILAH 


"What  I!   I  love!   I  sue!   I  seek  a  wife! 
A  woman  that  is  like  a  German  clock 
Still  a-repairing,  ever  out  of  frame, 
And  never  going  right,  being  a  watch, 
But  being  watched  that  it  may  still  go  right! 
Nay,  to  be  perjured,  which  is  worst  of  all 
And  among  three,  to  love  the  ivorst  of  all. 

****** 
Aye,  and  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed 
Tho'  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guide. 
A  wightly  wanton,  with  a  velvet  brow, 
With  two  pitchballs  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes.'" 
— Love's  Labor's  Lost. 

I  confess  that  the  reading  public  is  sometimes  fooled  by 
nursed  fables,  and  stunned  by  revelations  that  savor  of  a  careful 
construction  of  involved  explanation  that  fit  into  a  certain  fixed 
series  of  physical  events,  which  fall  by  their  own  absurd  weight, 
when  tested  in  the  crucible  of  the  natural  sequence  of  these 
events. 

Aristotle  has  said  that  "with  the  true  all  things  that  exist 
are  in  harmony,  but  with  the  false,  the  truth  at  once  disagrees. ' ' 
And  Starkie  has  enunciated  that  it'  is  impossible  to  construct  a 
false  consistency  of  circumstances  beyond  a  very  limited  extent. 
The  imagination  in  the  construction  of  premises,  is  a  despot,  and 
it  is  capable  of  clothing  life  with  roses  or  of  filling  it  with  thorns. 
And  imaginative  beings  who  invent  marvelous  tales  may  take 
what  license  they  please,  but  a  simple  narrator  is  nothing  if  not 
accurate.  How  often  do  we  hear  that  there  is  nothing  new  under 
the  sun !  I  do  no  violence  to  truth  then,  when  I  assert  that  there 
is  nothing  remarkable  beneath  the  visiting  moon. 

To  the  incredulous  and  to  the  skeptical  quibblers,  therefore, 
and  to  those,  who  by  their  complex  nature  have  a  hunger  for  the 
bizarre  and  fantastic,  to  those  who  have  the  remarkable  percep- 
tions of  the  ludicrous,  I  vouch  for  the  absolute  truth  of  the 


154 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


unique  comedy  here  narrated,  the  name  of  the  town  only  being 
veiled.  They  are  as  true  and  accurate  as  the  needle  that  always 
turns  toward  the  pole;  as  true  as  that  the  morning  steals  upon 
the  night;  as  true  as  that  the  clouds  and  shadows  of  a  summer 
day  succeed  one  another  as  inevitably  as  light  and  shadow.  If 
it  is  not  true,  then  it  must  be  invented.  If  there  is  discovered  in 
this  story  the  least  little  peephole  of  deception,  the  reader  may 
turn  away  with  a  prudish  disgust  and  discredit  the  author.  But 
by  the  souls  of  the  pious  in  Paradise  and  the  unholy  in  Gehenna, 
I  swear  that  it  is  true. 

When  I  record  that  the  singular  events  occurred  in  the  state 
of  Arkansaw,  the  very  atmosphere  about  me  may  become  vibrant 
with  derision,  for  I  frankly  confess  that  of  all  the  queer  animals 
of  both  the  higher  order  and  the  brute  creation  that  ever  stalked 
Jehovah's  footstool,  this  state  with  its  human  zoo,  is  a  winner 
with  the  bells  and  spangles.  Poets  have  versified  in  a  Niagara 
of  thundering  melody  of  the  strange  things  there,  and  some  wag 
inoculated  with  the  efflorescence  of  humor  and  the  chrysalis  of 
wit  in  his  makeup,  has  said  that  certain  denizens  in  that  state  are 
so  hopelessly  verdant  and  obtuse,  that  they  go  to  the  polls  on 
election  day  and  vote  for  1 1  Old  Hickory. ' '  And  yet  such  a  reve- 
lation is  not  so  startling  when  it  is  considered  that  the  human 
sheep  there  are  so  penned  in  from  other  inhabitants  of  this  giddy 
globe,  that  the  modern  newspaper  is  an  exotic;  that  there  is  no 
clank  of  the  colliery,  no  rattle  of  the  locomotive,  no  roar  of  the 
blast  furnace  and  no  shriek  of  the  factory  whistle  in  these  piney 
woods.  They  are  an  old-fashioned  type  seemingly  content  to  live 
in  old  ruts,  and  to  subsist  on  corn-dodgers,  sow-belly,  'lasses  and 
corn  whiskey.  They  eat  peas  with  a  jack-knife  and  dip  snuff  on 
the  end  of  a  stick ;  and  their  principal  occupation  when  not  rais- 
ing hell  or  going  thru  the  evolutions  of  the  donkey  trot,  due  to 
an  attack  of  the  breakbone  ague,  is  the  grinding  of  Swedish  face 
powder  dubbed  Copenhagen  snuff.  In  the  sequestered  fast- 
nesses, the  a  la  mode  vogue  for  pedal  extremities  is  what  is  lacon- 
ically named  "government  socks."  Old  nesters  there  grow  to- 
bacco for  home  ' '  chawin, ' '  and  all  of  them  brew  'lasses  from  the 
native  cane. 

The  history  of  Arkansaw  for  some  decades  past  is  a  romance 
of  a  primitive  people  that  are  largely  limited  to  the  picturesque 
incident  of  illicit  distilling  of  "corn  likker"  by  companies  of 
Robin  Hood's  men  encamped  in  sequestered  coves.  The  real 
Arkansawyers  are  easily  singled  out  among  other  things  by  their 
lank  longitude ;  tall,  lank,  dry  rustics,  old  Reuben  bushwhackers 
as  ancient  as  the  sun,  who  whittle,  "chaw"  tobacco  and  drawl  a 
hundred  distressingly  personal  questions.   They  are  of  the  lowest 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


155 


possible  type,  entirely  without  ethnological  interest,  indeed  a 
little  better  than  "mudfish."  They  occupy  a  low  rung  in  the 
ladder  of  culture,  dwelling  amid  the  fog  and  swamp  of  fetish- 
ness.    Their  emotional  stability  is  pronounced. 

By  reason  of  these  facts,  they  have  been  for  years  subjects  of 
idiotic  burlesque. 

The  state  is  redolent  with  swamps,  whose  waters  are  inky 
black  and  whose  trees  are  covered  with  parasites  and  hanging 
with  festoons  of  vines,  and  miasmatic  vapors  spring  up  in  an 
instant  like  flowers  from  the  magic  soil  of  India.  A  wild  goose 
would  be  entirely  lost  in  some  of  the  bottoms  of  Arkansaw. 

A  word  about  the  snakes  that  infest  the  jungles.  The  native 
varieties  constitute  the  blow  snake,  the  hoop  snake,  the  joint 
snake  and  the  whip  snake.  The  main  stunt  of  the  first  named  is 
to  inflate  its  vital  principle  with  malarial  fog  that  rises  from  the 
dammed  up  swamps,  and,  in  a  violent  expiration,  blow  a  native 's 
sky-piece  off ;  that  of  a  hoop  snake  is  the  adjusting  of  its  caudal 
adjunct  to  its  maw,  and,  describing  a  circle,  roll  along  the  alfalfa 
damps  somewhat  like  a  hoop  in  the  assassination  of  distance  and 
compel  a  swamp-angel  to  volplane  out  of  the  way ;  the  long  suit 
of  the  joint  snake  is  to  ramble  along  the  malarial  fungi  in  ma- 
jestic carriage  like  a  freight  train  and  when  surprised  by  the 
approach  of  a  swamp-angel,  uncouple  its  joints  and  deposit  them 
to  hither  and  thither  sidings,  while  its  head,  representing  the 
engine,  sticks  to  the  main  line.  When  all  danger  has  faded 
away,  the  joints  couple  together  and  the  manifest  is  on  the  roll. 
When  the  whip  snake  strikes,  it  rises  one-third  of  its  length  and 
cracks  a  swamp  angel  on  the  back,  using  the  other  two-thirds  of 
its  length  for  this  purpose.  These  and  other  varmints  peculiarly 
indigenous  to  Arkansaw  zoology,  such  as  the  web-footed  Polly- 
hickus,  the  peccavi,  the  homo-camelopard  and  the  cephalopod  are 
subject  to  the  chills  nad  fever  and  are  known  to  have  bummed 
bos  for  quinine,  who  were  unfortunate  enough  to  hit  the  grit 
thru  the  swamps  of  ripened  ginseng.  Other  varmints  there  are 
the  jaracoa,  the  whangdoodle,  the  sphenedon,  the  sucuruju,  the 
Mazazza,  the  pfirrari,  the  camarasaurus,  the  catawissa,  the  cata- 
wampus,  the  moropus,  the  teledu,  the  ornithyrincus,  the  poly- 
molywincus,  the  platibus  and  the  dingalingadinga. 

In  this  state  quinine  is  as  essential  as  wood  and  water,  and  is 
one  of  the  only  sure  cures  for  malaria  known  to  the  medical  pro- 
fession. 

The  native  nigger  is  as  black  as  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta. 
He  has  a  nasal  proboscis,  which,  when  flattened  out,  the  nostrils 
represent  the  orifices  of  a  double-barreled  shotgun,  and  when 
the  darkey  is  immersed  in  spells  of  inordinate  cachination,  the 


156 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


thick  labials  part  and  within  the  cavernous  maw  is  disclosed  a 
small  cemetery.  The  native  shoat  is  specially  trained  to  out 
distance  him  by  developing  him  into  a  razorback  and  the  nigger 
is  thus  given  a  run  for  his  money. 

Lickskillet,  Arkansaw,  was  in  the  spring  of  1901,  a  hookworm, 
jerkwater  speck  of  something  like  one  thousand  souls,  located  on 
the  Iron  Mountain  line.  It  was  a  wide  place  in  the  road  and  of 
tomblike  repose.  Of  the  population  there  was  a  generous  sprink- 
ling of  the  descendents  of  the  biblical  Ham,  and  no  violence  will 
be  done  to  truth  when  it  is  solemnly  recorded  that  all  of  the 
inhabitants,  irrespective  of  the  color  line,  were  for  the  most  part, 
dense  yaps,  superficial  yokels,  unmellowed  nesters,  unlicked 
denizens  and  bonehead  boobs.  The  town  was  dub  and  unpainted, 
with  Rip  Van  Winkle  movements  and  there  was  a  general  hum- 
drum grayness  of  things.  On  the  occasion  of  my  initial  visit 
there,  and  which  I  hope  will  be  my  last,  as  I  slipped  anchor  at 
the  depot,  a  small  red-sanded  affair,  I  goggled  ahead  of  me 
facing  the  depot,  the  announcement  in  dizzy  letters,  "Cooncan 
Arms."  To  this  inn  I  shuffled,  assuming  a  deportment  of  the 
most  Chesterfieldian  arrogance  and  reflecting  an  attitude  of  the 
most  ineffable  and  flattered  importance.  Wherever  I  may  be, 
this  is  my  personality,  but  in  Arkansaw  they  are  useless  poses. 
Entering  the  inn,  I  was  greeted  by  a  poky,  middle-aged  crimp  of 
unattractive  physiognomy,  who,  in  stuffy,  bellowing  petticoats 
of  starched  linsey-woolsey  and  other  frippery  of  ante-bellum 
days  and  sporting  cork-screw  curls,  relieved  me  of  my  handbag 
and  cravenette  and  conducted  me  to  an  unpretentious  room  over 
which  was  scrawled  " Hotel  Office."  I  registered  my  moniker 
as  hailing  from  Yokohama,  Japan,  and  then  slid  into  a  comfort- 
able, splint-bottomed  rocker,  pour  passer  le  temps.  The  crimp 
handed  me  a  copy  of  the  local  weekly,  the  1 '  Lickskillet  Squawk, ' ' 
and  I  drank  in  the  agony  columns  with  impatient  eagerness.  On 
the  table  before  me  was  a  copy  of  the  two  extremes  of  literature, 
the  Bible  and  the  Police  Gazette,  and  choosing  the  latter,  I 
perused  its  pages  with  the  keenness  of  a  true  sport.  It  was  now 
four  o'clock  p.  m.,  so  I  concluded  to  improve  the  occasion  by  in- 
dulging in  a  ramble  about  the  town  seeking  local  color.  This  is 
what  I  saw. 

About  one  block  from  the  depot  was  located  what  the  town 
plugs  called  a  city  park.  This  was  a  level  square,  but  there  was 
absolutely  nothing  to  dignify  it  as  an  elysium  dedicated  to  recre- 
ation, neither  tree  nor  shrub  nor  bench,  not  even  the  semblance 
of  an  enclosure,  much  less  a  blade  of  grass.  In  the  middle  of  this 
slandered  parterre,  a  bunch  of  razorback  shoats  was  irreconcil- 
ably asleep  and  sprawled  out  in  the  blistering  sun.    The  long 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


157 


snouts  of  these  pesky  critters  were  nuzzled  in  the  pulverized 
earth,  and  at  each  expiration  there  was  sent  forth  a  volley  of 
dust,  as  powdered  as  the  gold  dust  of  the  dragon  fly.  Nearly  a 
half-dozen  shoats  roosted  upon  the  convenient  limb  of  a  black- 
jack. Retreating  from  this  sight,  I  mounted  a  plank  walk  and 
obserbed  an  iron  grey  cow  making  its  dinner  of  a  variety  of 
display  goods  in  front  of  a  grocery  store.  Her  calf  was  dining 
at  her  udders,  and  to  my  consternation  both  of  them  en  bloc, 
entered  thru  the  door  of  the  grocery  store. 

I  regarded  this  as  an  odd  proceeding,  but  all  agog  for  sensa- 
tion, I  pushed  on  further  up  the  street  and  this  brought  me 
abruptly  to  the  open  country,  with  its  wide  lonesomeness  all 
about.  The  upper  reaches  of  the  town  showed  growing  squalor. 
Forbidding  shacks  lined  the  way,  more  and  more  frowsy  as  the 
end  was  reached.  There  were  battered,  patched  up  shanties  of 
broken  windows  and  half-hinged  doors — a  haphazard  array  of 
tottering  buildings.  The  few  buildings  that  were  there  and  in- 
habited by  negroes  were  fallen  into  ruin  except  those  patched  up 
by  their  ebony  tenants. 

I  contemplated  the  painfully  acute  somnolence  of  the  town. 
There  was  not  an  Arkansaw  yokel  or  sizzerbill  or  Bill  Whiskers 
in  sight.  From  a  nearby  barn  the  bray  of  an  ass  jarred  dis- 
cordantly on  the  ear,  and  at  the  same  time  my  sensitive  olfac- 
tories were  assaulted  by  the  odoriferous  pungency  of  that  well- 
known  aroma  which  emanates  from  the  hydrophobia-mad  brown 
skunk.    Barring  these,  there  was  not  a  sign  of  activity. 

I  now  got  curious  to  know  what  was  the  fate  of  the  iron-grey 
bovine  and  her  calf,  and  I  was  rewarded  by  seeing  them  clatter- 
ing down  the  single  narrow  street  that  lost  itself  in  a  chaotic 
ruin  of  shacks.  Passing  the  grocery  store  mentioned,  I  peered 
in,  being  actuated  by  curiosity,  as  the  very  atmosphere  seemed 
to  breed  this  quality.  Here  I  piped  a  swamp  angel,  partially 
deshabile,  reclining  on  the  counter  and  engaged  in  an  effort  to 
prevent  a  swarm  of  flies  from  assaulting  his  mug  by  the  aid  of 
a  skillet,  in  lieu  of  the  customary  fan.  He  seemed  in  a  languid, 
pensive  mood.  On  a  placard  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  the 
eye  was  greeted  with  this  announcement:  "Muskrat  skins  ex- 
changed for  quinine. ' ' 

Not  a  solitary  soul  could  be  detected  on  the  street  and  if  a 
dynamite  bomb  had  suddenly  been  exploded,  it  wouldn't  have 
been  heard  by  the  hypnotic  Reubens  of  Lickskillet.  In  passing 
the  Post  Office,  I  inquired  when  the  next  mail  would  arrive  from 
the  North.    I  was  answered  by  a  middle-aged  mulatto  woman,  a 


158 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


wench  of  unwieldy  proportions  and  as  black  as  the  mouth  of 
hell : 

' '  Shucks,  honey,  Wha 's  yo '  f rum  ? ' '  she  asked  in  the  untrans- 
latable poetry  of  her  class. 

I  replied  that  I  hailed  from  Squeedunk. 

"Do  tell,"  she  said.    "I  have  heern  o'  Squee-Squee. " 

"Dunk,"  said  I.  "Squeedunk  is  about  ten  miles  from  Po- 
dunk,  twelve  miles  from  Skookum,  fifteen  miles  from  Pumpkin 
Centre  and  twenty-one  miles  from  Pohokus  Junction,  "I  added. 

"Is  yo'  gwine  to  stay  long  in  Lickskillet ? "  she  asked. 

"That  depends;"  I  said.    This  is  a  pretty  slow  town." 

"It  is  'daid.'  It  is  so  'daid'  that  last  Chusedy,  Uncle  Si 
Slocum  dropt  'daid'  in  frunt  ob  dis  yere  Pos'  Off  is  and  his 
body  was  not  foun'  till  de  follerin'  Sat 'day." 

"The  H  you  say.  The  devil  and  Tom  Walker."  I  ex- 
claimed. 

Moved  by  prurient  curiosity  to  probe  the  utter  intellectual 
density  of  this  Black  Maria,  I  ventured  some  questions: 
"What  is  the  name  of  your  Governor?" 
"Is  Lickskillet  the  county  seat  of  the  county?" 
' '  What  day  of  the  month  is  today  ? " 
"How  old  are  you?" 

To  all  of  these  interrogatories  she  replied  in  the  negative,  and 
I  finally  wound  up  the  inquisition  by  putting  the  question.  Are 
you  alive  ? ' '  and  to  this  she  replied  ' '  I  don 't  know. ' ' 

"Well,  if  that  wouldn't  jar  my  electric  bells."  I  solilo- 
quized.   "Truly,  the  only  darkness  is  ignorance." 

As  I  was  about  to  take  my  leave,  she  remarked:  "Yo'  all 
sure  is  white  folks. ' ' 

"Good-bye,  Snowball,"  I  farewelled. 

"So,  Long,  honey,"  she  returned. 

"Watch  your  step,  and  don't  take  in  any  rubber  jitneys." 
I  farewelled  again. 

Returning  to  the  Cooncan  Inn,  I  found  there  a  lop-eared  and 
spotted  houn'  dawg  dozing  behind  the  doorstep.  It  had  evi- 
dently just  licked  up  a  skilletfull  of  sop. 

The  houn'  dawg  is  a  native  of  the  state  of  Arkansas  and  the 
most  promising  member  of  the  whispering  chorus  which  so  often 
shatters  the  night  hours  in  that  sleepy  region,  far  up  on  some 
lonely,  rock-strewn  hillside  in  the  Northern  part  of  the  state  of 
which  this  sleepy  animal  is  a  favored  citizen. 

How  often  have  I  sat  in  the  sleepy  dusk  lost  in  meditation  of 
the  things  that  are,  that  were  and  will  always  be,  only  to  have 
the  sabbath-like  stillness  shattered  by  that  song,  sad  as  all  the 
tears  shed  by  mortal  man,  filled  with  the  longing  and  heart 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


159 


break  heard  only  in  the  song  of  the  disappointed  and  disillu- 
sioned houn'  dawg. 

As  his  song  shatters  the  night  like  all  the  demons  of  gloom 
in  all  the  gloomy  region  below,  and  finally  dies  away  in  the  dim 
distant  heights  of  the  eternal  hills  like  some  silent,  solitary  soul 
trailing  its  lonely  way  from  a  world  that  it  has  known  only  to  be 
a  farce,  and  into  a  world  of  which  it  knows  nothing  and  hopes 
for  nothing,  I  think  of  the  life  of  this  poor,  misjudged  animal. 

The  best  heart  that  ever  beat  in  animal  breast  beats  here 
beneath  this  mangy  coat  and  these  starveling  ribs.  No  man  is 
his  enemy  and  all  men  are  his  friends.  In  fact,  he  loves  the 
world  in  general  and  all  mankind. 

,  He  knows  that  his  creator  made  him  to  laze  in  the  sunshine 
and  dream  of  the  long  days  of  sunshine  ahead,  and  the  long 
nights  when  he  will  be  free  to  sing  his  dirgelike  song  unmolested. 

Does  man  show  his  sympathy  for  the  tragedy  and  the  heart- 
ache and  woe  so  often  heard  in  this  humble  friend 's  song  ?  No ; 
the  song  only  brings  curses  on  his  poor  weary  head  and  kicks  to 
the  poor  starveling  ribs  that  cover  the  truest  heart,  a  maw  per- 
petually hungry  and  a  hide  full  of  aggressive  fleas. 

So  when  next  you  hear  the  song  of  the  houn'  dawg,  full  of 
the  longing  to  be  understood  and  loved,  be  charitable  to  this  the 
breaker  of  your  rest,  the  friend  in  need  and  the  only  true  Arkan- 
sawyer. 

The  gong  honked  for  lunch  and  the  "chow"  was  landed. 
The  menu  consisted  of  flapjacks  and  molasses,  sweet  potatoes, 
corndodgers,  barbecued  meat,  Hungarian  goulash,  mountain 
oysters,  bouillabaisse,  goats'  milk  and  tit-bits,  all  prepared  by 
the  * '  bull  cook. ' '  The  piece-de-resistance  was  the  rind  of  a  well 
baked  shoat.  The  company  spooned  bacon  grease  on  corn  pone. 
It  was  a  feast  good  enough  for  the  Olympians. 

The  boarders  having  retired  early  as  was  their  custom  in 
these  piney  woods,  the  crimp  invited  me  into  the  sitting  room. 
In  this  I  acquiesced,  altho '  at  the  time  I  thought  it  an  invasion 
of  liberties  that  could  not  be  pardoned  under  the  conditions. 
We  remained  here  from  early  evening  until  early  morning  after 
which  I  retired  with  delight  into  that  silence  and  solitude  which 
made  it  so  dear  to  the  rustic  population.  When  I  arose,  I  found 
a  row  of  web-footed  old  hens  and  cadaverous  looking  shoats 
roosting  in  harmonious  fellowship  on  the  bottom  rail  of  the  bed. 

Now,  so  far  as  my  relations  with  the  crimp  are  concerned 
they  were  as  stated  hereafter.  She  confided  to  me  that  from 
early  life  up  to  this  very  moment  when  she  first  met  me  she  had 
been  in  quest  of  a  life  partner,  and  that  she  had  been  afflicted 
with  erotomania ;  that  she  had  been  a  rose  withering  on  the  vir- 


160 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


gin  thorn  of  single  blessedness ;  that  she  regarded  me  as  her  soul 
affinity,  the  very  pink  of  all  the  proprieties,  as  right  as  either 
a  rabbit  or  a  trivet.  She  confided  to  me  in  the  most  unreserved 
delicacy,  that  she  herself  could  become  a  most  companionable 
partner  to  any  man  and  that  she  longed  for  the  day  when  heaven 
would  send  her  such  a  man  as  your  Uncle  Henry.  She  said  that 
she  could  be  as  constant  as  the  Northern  star,  of  whose  true-fixed 
and  resting  quality  there  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament.  She  had 
exhorted  the  Gods  to  bless  her  with  the  acquisition  of  just  such 
a  man.  She  had  invoked  every  deity  in  the  hierarchy  of  the 
Southern  skies  to  witness  her  imperishable  love.  She  was  in 
quest  of  Pluto's  man — an  animal  without  feathers  and  having 
two  legs.  She  had  consulted  the  stars  and  her  prayer  had  been 
answered  by  my  advent  in  Lickskillet.  I  was  her  abstract  ideal  ; 
I  was  her  hitching  post;  I  was  her. sturdy  oak;  she  promised  to 
be  my  clinging  vine. 

I  was,  of  course,  transported  into  a  maelstrom  of  bewilder- 
ment that  I  should  be  singled  out  as  her  immaculate  paragon. 
I  repeatedly  asked  myself :  ' '  What 's  the  game  ? "  "  Am  I  the 
innocent  victim  of  a  dark  and  diabolical  plot?"  "Am  I  to  be- 
come a  gowk,  a  cuckoo,  a  poisson  d'  avrilV1 

In  the  fire  of  our  talk  I  suddenly  confronted  her  with  this 
question  :  ' '  What  if  I  am  already  glued  to  another  ? ' '  She  an- 
swered that  it  could  not  be,  and  that  as  to  this  she  was  following 
revealed  destiny.  I  concluded,  in  spite  of  this,  that  she  indulged 
in  a  lot  of  purr  and  bunk  and  wumgush,  that  she  was  a  glass- 
faced  flatterer,  and  I  sprinkled  cool  patience  upon  the  heat  and 
flame  of  my  distemper,  believing  that  ' '  'tis  holy  spirit  to  be  a 
little  vain  when  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery  conquers  strife." 

I  assured  her  that  on  the  morrow  we  would  resume  further 
discussion,  as  I  proposed  to  remain  in  Lickskillet  for  some  days 
on  a  routine  of  business  (which  was  an  unholy  lie),  and  that 
ample  time  would  be  afforded  within  which  to  take  up  this  af- 
fair of  the  heart.  I  was  thereupon  reluctantly  lighted  to  my 
room,  the  epithalamium  of  the  hotel,  and  here,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  a  hypodermic  injection  of  morphine,  I  was  soon  hurried 
to  the  realm  of  opium  dreams. 

When  I  arose  the  fever  from  mosquito  bites  burned  in  my 
blood,  and  I  again  jabbed  the  hypodermic  into  the  popliteal  space 
of  my  left  limb. 

For  two  weeks  I  rusticated  in  Lickskillet,  during  which  time 
this  crimp  plied  me  for  reciprocal  love.  She  said  that  all  that 
she  possessed,  she  flung  at  my  feet.  In  this  expose,  she  detailed 
some  choice  parcels  of  realty  in  the  State  Capital  and  other  realty 
here  in  the  bucolic  peublo.    There  was  a  dollar  mark  accredited 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


161 


to  her  of  no  mean  pumpkins,  and  under  all  of  the  conditions, 
these  were  gifts  for  Apollo.  Now,  I  was  a  "star  boarder"  at 
the  inn,  and  remembering  the  fact  that  I  was  in  need  of  im- 
mediate bullion,  I  resolved  the  question  rather  seriously,  going 
so  far  as  to  undertake  a  trip  to  the  County  seat  and  to  Little 
Rock  for  the  purpose  of  investigating  records.  I  had  a  two- 
fold object  in  doing  this,  the  very  material  one  being  the  hus- 
banding of  more  dope  to  cover  a  more  or  less  anxious  period 
ahead  of  me.  The  crimp  up  to  this  stage  had  not  been  ac- 
quainted with  my  chronic  addiction  to  morphine  and  cocoaine, 
but  the  fact  is  that  I  was  chained  to  a  noble  pair  of  brothers, 
morphine  and  cocoaine,  body  and  soul. 

In  all  seriousness,  I  must  confess  that  my  first  impressions 
regarding  her  vows  descending  upon  me  so  suddenly,  tinctured 
with  the  idea  that  there  might  be  a  semblance  of  coquetry  on  her 
part,  and  induced  me  to  revel  in  the  belief  that  her  profuse  and 
voluble  assurances  of  idolatrous  adoration  amounted  to  a  phan- 
tasy of  the  moment — a  baseless  and  unstable  creation  rather  of 
the  imagination  than  of  the  heart.  Under  all  of  the  circum- 
stances, had  I  not  the  right  to  be  skeptical  about  her  professions 
of  fidelity  ?  Yet  in  the  evident  impetuosity  of  enthusiasm  of  her 
nature,  and  with  all  the  eloquence  she  could  command,  there 
could  not  be  detected  a  scintilla  of  the  old  mysterious  witchery 
we  call  charm,  and  if  any  were  intended,  it  was  veneered  in  her 
opulent  words  of  endearment  and  in  that  nobility  of  soul  and 
dignity  of  candor,  which  bent  the  stubborn  knee  of  cavil.  Her 
sweet  tongue  had  the  capacity  to  disarm  the  most  infinitesimal 
hint  of  distrust.  She  had  an  expression  of  arch  and  coquettish 
benignity.  Her  charming  air  of  naivete  would  enthrall  a  statue. 
If  her  professions  of  affection  were  of  a  gossamer  texture  or 
pregnant  with  the  attribute  of  volatility,  it  was  not  apparent 
upon  its  surface.  She  was  capable,  like  Rosalind,  after  having 
committed  some  fauxpas,  discernible  in  her  bonne  bouche,  of 
healing  it  up  with  her  eye.  If  she  had  a  cold  bosom,  the  dor- 
mant fires  lurking  in  its  depths  became  at  once  enkindled.  What- 
ever art  she  had,  she  had  blundered  on  the  chord  that  makes 
hearts  beat  in  tune  to  some  vast  indwelling  rhythym  of  the  uni- 
verse. Love  is  a  credulous  thing.  It  is  like  a  web  swung  be- 
tween ecstasy  and  misery. 

From  all  outward  appearances,  this  woman  was  worthy  of 
any  man's  love  and  confidence.  She  was  home-spun  tho',  but 
whether  in  spangles  or  in  calico,  a  woman  is  a  woman  after  all. 
Besides,  this  wench  had  some  artistic  accomplishments,  among 
which  was  the  fact  that  she  could  render  some  dulcet  and 
heavenly  music,  such  as  soft  lullabys  and  sweet  serenades,  as 


162 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


well  as  execute  some  ravishing  pizzicatos  on  the  ukeleli,  the  swin- 
ette,  the  oboe  and  the  seraphina.  She  sang  for  me  a  villanelle 
uplift — a  tenor  so  singularly  sweet  and  shaded  by  a  pathos  so 
subduing  and  tender,  that  I  wot  not  the  birds  stopped  to  listen 
as  there  thrilled  thru  it  some  occult  quality  of  tone  and  expres- 
sion that  was  unspeakably  touching. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  was  a  human  derelict  drifting  hither 
and  thither  in  an  aimless  way,  and  even  granting  that  I  soured 
of  the  bargain  afterwards,  there  was  everything  to  gain  and 
nothing  to  lose,  knowing  as  1  did,  that  no  light  in  any  window 
in  the  wide,  wide  world,  burned  for  this  hophead.  I  was  not 
married,  except  to  drugs,  and  here  was  an  opportunity  at  my 
door,  like  a  pony  all  bridled  and  saddled,  with  the  time,  the  place 
and  the  girl.  I  was  a  wretched  soul  bruised  by  adversity.  I 
was  sick  of  the  wanderlust,  was  like  a  gambler  with  empty 
pockets  and  I  sighed  for  a  meal  ticket  with  bread  buttered  on 
both  sides  in  some  Arcadian  vale.  If  this  woman  should  turn 
out  to  be  the  painting  of  a  sorrow,  a  face  without  a  heart;  if, 
after  having  taken  her  for  a  rose,  she  should  prove  a  thorn,  or 
if,  perchance,  I  became  tired  of  any  effervescent  and  deceptive 
charms  in  her  makeup,  I  could  hike  to  Reno,  Nevada,  where  in 
twenty  minutes  I  could  get  refreshments,  and  in  another  five 
minutes  I  could  get  a  divorce.  A  blase  man  of  the  world,  and 
frozen  as  I  was  by  its  cares,  I  was  guillotined  upon  the  block 
of  her  specious  promises  and  honeyed  words  and  the  thrilling 
and  enthralling  eloquence  of  her  low,  musical  language,  which, 
Othello-like,  eternally  riveted  my  chains. 

In  all  frankness  I  concealed  nothing  from  her  confiding  af- 
fection, I  entered  with  perfect  sincerity,  not  only  into  a  detail 
of  my  minor  vices  but  even  to  my  chronic  addiction  to  morphine 
and  cocoaine,  and  I  made  full  confession  of  those  moral  delin- 
quencies and  even  physical  infirmities.  Notwithstanding  all  of 
these,  I  could  be  the  most  uxorious  of  husbands. 

I  did  my  most  gallant  at  philandering. 

"You  have  demanded  of  me  on  the  morrow  my  hand  in  mar- 
riage. I  shall  yield  to  your  entreaties.  I  sacrifice  every  feel- 
ing for  you."    I  said. 

The  next  day  was  accordingly  scheduled  for  the  solemnization 
of  the  ceremony  of  marriage,  and  in  the  interim,  title  deeds  were 
prepared  and  other  documents  constituting  a  nuptial  settlement. 
I  was  bound  to  her  in  some  mystic  way  that  defied  human  anal- 
ysis. There  was  the  existence  of  natures  in  perfect  affinity. 
Her  charms  were  being  revealed  each  day  and  I  looked  forward 
with  felicitous  anticipation  to  tomorrow,  when  I  could  claim  her 
as  my  Dolly  Varden.    She  seemed  to  me  the  very  incarnation  of 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


163 


Medusa.  To  the  very  last  her  embraces  became  amorous,  and  at 
last  I  was  to  become  a  medlar  in  love. 

On  the  evening-  prior  to  the  wedding,  we  drank  to  each  other's 
well-being,  and  I  clandestinely  slipped  a  slug  of  cocoaine  and 
morphine  blended  into  her  demi-tasse,  so  that  these  combined 
drugs  could  fight  it  out  together.  It  was  a  harmless  potion,  and 
the  worst  that  could  be  expected  of  the  physiological  effects 
would  be  transportation  to  a  momentary  trance,  involving  a 
sleep-walking  dream.  Finally,  we  parted,  and  I  retired  in  ec- 
static rapture  to  repair  my  o'erlabored  senses  by  a  sleep  just  as 
the  crickets  sang. 

I  must  have  slumbered  for  some  time,  superinduced  by  the 
draught  of  morphine  and  cocoaine  that  I  always  administered  on 
retiring,  and  during  the  shank  of  the  night,  I  awoke.  On  my 
way  downstairs,  nature  obeying  necessity,  I  at  once  observed  that 
her  room,  which  was  removed  some  few  doors  from  my  own,  was 
ablaze  with  illumination.  My  curiosity  pressed  hard  upon  my 
prudence.  Should  I  surrender  myself  to  a  morbid  impulse? 
With  shame  and  a  hotly  chiding  conscience  I  looked  thru  the 
keyhole — a  furtive  and  inexcusable  act.  The  transom  being 
open  above  the  door,  I  used  a  mirror. 

Could  I  be  mistaken?  Had  I  suddenly  become  a  victim  of 
near  sightedness?  Was  there  any  refractory  media  about  my 
eyes?   No,  Hortense. 

She  was  dolling  up  for  the  event,  and  from  all  appearances, 
was  then  in  a  sleep-walking  dream.  I  really  thought  that  she 
had  gone  hemp  crazy. 

She  stood  before  a  mirror,  ever  and  anon  glancing  sidewise 
at  her  form  and  visage,  returning  the  smile  that  aureoled  her 
face.  Her  breast  was  as  flat  as  a  shingle,  and  upon  the  removal 
of  a  wig  from  her  gourd,  her  pate  was  as  hairless  as  a  billiard 
ball.  I  was  sensibly  agitated,  yet  retained  the  capacity  to  ap- 
preciate the  ridiculous  and  sensed  that  I  was  soon  to  become  the 
blown-up  sucker  to  this  Arkansaw  flibbertigibbet.  On  the 
mantel  before  her  grinned  a  full  set  of  false  teeth,  deftly  re- 
moved from  her  jaws,  and  displaying  her  cavernously  hollow 
cheeks,  but  notwithstanding  this  she  ravenously  chewed  Copen- 
hagen snuff. 

She  was  about  the  width  of  a  bed  slat  and  her  cheek  bones 
stood  out  like  the  hips  of  a  wild  broncho.  She  couldn't  have 
weighed  more  than  seventy  pounds  on  the  hoof  and  with  her  eye 
glasses  on,  the  skin  stretched  tight  over  her  bone  structure.  The 
sharp  angles  and  deep  hollows  of  her  body  showed  clearly.  She 
looked  as  lean  and  brittle  as  the  dead  branch  of  an  old  tree. 


164 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


Never  had  any  living  creature  been  so  emaciated  and  yet  lived. 
She  seemed  no  more  than  a  phantom. 

I  was  now  utterly  speechless  with  terror  and  with  rage. 
From  my  vantage  ground  I  thought  that  I  piped  a  glass  eye,  but 
dismissed  this  as  a  possible  prurient  supposition.  Her  face  was 
as  yellow  as  parchment  and  time  had  written  so  many  wrinkles, 
that  there  was  not  room  for  another  line.  In  an  outburst  of 
passionate  exultation  and  more  in  the  manner  and  simplicity  of 
a  school  girl,  she  had  told  me  that  she  had  never  been  kissed  ex- 
cept by  a  brindle  steer;  she  had  also  told  me  that  she  was  thirty 
years  of  age ;  she  now  looked  an  acidulous  maiden  of  eighty- 
three.  Truly,  she  reflected  more  the  December  bird  than  the 
yellowleg  pullet  of  May. 

Now,  up  to  this  interesting  crisis,  nothing  could  deflect  me 
from  the  firm  purpose  of  matrimony  with  the  crimp  at  the  time 
stipulated,  but  when  her  hands  wandered  to  her  buttocks  and  a 
G  string  was  pulled  releasing  an  object  in  the  shape  of  a  small 
pillow,  unmistakeably  indicating  that  it  was  utilized  as  an  artifi- 
cial caboose,  and  exhibiting  herself  in  puris  naturalib'k,  my  faith 
was  sensibly  weakened,  if  not  completely  obliterated.  She  sported 
a  pair  of  legs  that  looked  like  the  running  gears  of  a  Kansas 
grasshopper.  Verily,  she  looked  like  the  last  rose  of  summer, 
and  in  this  respect  nature  was  above  art. 

I  dextrously  turned  the  knob  of  the  door.  It  yielded  readily 
and  I  entered.  Perceiving  at  once  that  she  was  in  the  actual 
presence  of  her  inamorata,  she  pitched  heavily  backwards  to  the 
floor  and  fell  as  flat  as  a  leaf  and  as  dead  as  a  mutton.  In  fact 
even  before  I  bent  over  her,  before  I  wiped  the  blood  from  her 
brow  and  felt  for  her  silent  heart,  I  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

As  I  looked  upon  this  being  cold  in  death,  I  became  sur- 
charged with  emotion. 

Whether  the  excitement  due  to  the  near  approach  of  marriage 
or  the  shock  due  to  my  abrupt  invasion  of  her  room,  or  an  over- 
dose of  morphine  and  cocoaine  had  hastened  her  end,  I  do  not 
know ;  but  I  do  know  that  as  she  lay  there  with  the  chill  languor 
of  death  creeping  over  her  limbs,  she  fixed  upon  me  the  baleful 
glare  and  closed  her  eyes  forever. 

N.  B. — Those  of  my  readers  who  may  have  objections  to  the  veracity 
of  this  chronicle,  may  for  confirmation  consult  the  records  of  White 
County,  Arkansas,  where  the  mysterious  death  of  Miss  Samantha 
Coughenour  is  recorded  June  11th,  1901. — The  Author. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


A  HOT  TOWN 


"Be  as. a  planetary  plague  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high-viced  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  ear." 

— Timon  of  Athens. 

Each  in  the  heyday  of  its  sanguinary  career  as  a  western 
town  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  Dodge  City,  Kansas,  Deadwood, 
Dakota  and  Creede,  Colorado  shone  as  Meccas  of  outlawry  and 
terror. 

Along  the  streets  of  these  primitive  border  towns  in  the  salad 
days  ran  a  crimson  tide  of  sin.  Outlaws,  fugitives  from  justice, 
roughnecks,  pluguglies,  whitecaps  and  "bad  men"  generally 
composed  the  shifting  population,  and  a  Broadway  tenderfoot 
was  as  much  out  of  his  element  there  as  a  bull  in  a  china  shop 
or  a  patch  of  ripe  tomatoes  in  a  cemetery.  Noted  characters 
whose  daredevil  stunts  have  emblazoned  the  pages  of  yellowbacks 
in  carmine  letters,  and  who  long  ago  stood  in  the  spotlight  as 
desperadoes,  blazed  an  inflammatory  trail.  The  use  of  the  six- 
gun  was.  honored  with  religious  observance.  In  civilized  com- 
munities organized  tribunals  of  justice  inflicted  penalties  against 
the  law,  but  in  these  towns  mob  violence,  argumentum  baculinum 
was  substituted  for  courts,  and  under  such  reign  of  terror  lynch 
law  was  the  single  agency  that  could  curb  the  spirit  of  unbridled 
outlawry. 

Since  the  roly  poly  days  of  Creede,  Colorado,  where  the 
slayer  of  Jesse  James  "bit  the  dust,"  no  town  has  sprung  into 
existnce  that  could  eclipse  them  except  one,  and  that  one  for 
superlative  venality,  downright  cussedness,  notorious  lascivious- 
ness,  general  diablerie,  etourderie,  friponnerie  and  tracasserie 
had  them  skinned.  During  its  fleeting  regime,  it  was  a  modern 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  In  fact,  as  a  spot  which  showed  the  de- 
cadence of  public  morals,  this  one  had  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 
stopped  four  ways  from  the  Jack.    It  was  a  hothouse  of  crime, 


166 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


a  nursery  of  heterogeneous  pollution.  Some  places  are  warm; 
this  one  was  a  hot  one — a  latter  day  Inferno.  There  certainly 
was  some  jazz,  joy  and  jambalaya  in  this  town.  Here  morality 
was  never  known  and  sin  held  dominion  over  all.  It  was  a  clear- 
ing house  for  deviltry.  In  fact,  the  Devil  himself  held  the  unin- 
terrupted sceptre  of  power  de  facto,  de  jure,  de  lege,  and  a  min- 
ister of  the  orthodox  gospel  would  be  as  extraordinary  here  as 
a  politician  at  a  prayer  meeting,  or  an  angel  at  a  bull  fight.  The 
town  should  have  been  dubbed  Hell,  but  paradoxical  as  it  may 
appear,  it  was  given  the  name,  whether  in  honor  or  in  jest,  of  a 
former  president  of  the  most  advanced  country  on  earth. 

I  refer  to  Taft,  Montana,  and  my  purpose  is  to  report  a 
chronique  scandaleuse. 

As  an  ephemeral  town  it  germinated  on  the  line  of  the  North- 
ern Pacific  Railway  during  the  construction  of  the  Chicago, 
Milwaukee  &  St.  Paul  Railway,  and  it  flourished  from  1906  to 
1908,  furnishing  labor  to  a  crazy  quilt  of  cosmopolites  in  the  con- 
struction of  road  bed,  tunnels  and  trestles  along  its  tortuous  and 
devious  geography.  The  town  consisted  of  but  a  single  street 
stretching  the  length  of  a  half  mile  facing  the  right  of  way. 
There  were  beautiful  mountains  rising  sentinel-like  at  Taft's 
back  door,  turquoise  heights  veined  with  ivory  snows,  misty, 
mysterious  and  enchanting,  dwarfing  in  colossal  grandeur  the 
insignificant  crazy  galvanized  shacks.  Gullies  and  abysmal 
gulches  and  natural  culs-de-sac  abounded  amid  these  terra  firma 
ramparts.  The  whole  town  was  a  motley  collection  of  warped 
frame  buildings  which  had  taken  root  in  sandy  and  inhospitable 
soil,  and  these  were  slammed  together  without  any  apparent  aim 
at  artistic  detail  or  architectural  finesse.  There  were  also  tum- 
ble down  pariahs  of  shacks.  The  business  of  the  railway  com- 
pany was  transacted  in  an  abandoned  box  car  set  alongside  the 
Northern  Pacific  tracks. 

In  the  very  zenith  of  its  glory  as  the  toughest  town  on  the 
map,  it  sported  no  less  than  fifty  saloons,  as  many  gambling 
hells  and  a  like  number  of  houses  of  prostitution.  There  were 
many  proofs  here  of  the  Devil's  cloven  hoof.  Besides  the  hook 
shops,  freelance  sporting  women  were  numerous.  The  town  was 
the  jumping  off  place  for  stranded  hulks,  cutthroats,  roughnecks, 
bull-necks,  swift  fingered  tinhorns,  men  who  lived  without  work, 
women  who  lived  without  shame,  ex-convicts,  "sh overs  of  the 
queer,"  knuckle-dusters  and  criminals  of  varied  classification. 
These  veritable  harpies  of  vice  flourished  riotously,  and  plied 
their  sinister  designs  upon  the  diverse  European  operatives  of 
the  camp  and  the  unsuspecting  in  general.  Here  were  congre- 
gated aces  in  the  world  of  crime,  Lombroso's  type  with  the  low 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


167 


brow,  the  dull  eye  and  the  heavy  jaw.  Gunmen  had  waiting  lists 
and  the  fee  was  any  stipulated  dollar  mark  and  even  went  as 
low  as  a  leather  jitney.  Conscienceless  criminals  vied  with  one 
another  in  a  carnival  of  criminal  depredations.  Riotous  revelry 
and  absurd  wickedness  was  predominant.  There  was  a  hetero- 
geneous assembling  of  porch  climbers,  sand  baggers,  bunco  steer- 
ers,  slung  shot  stiffs,  strongarm  holdups  and  the  vicious  in  gen- 
eral in  pursuit  of  both  velvet  and  blood,  wretches  wavering  be- 
tween the  last  shade  of  poverty  and  actual  starvation  ready  to 
take  part  in  any  disturbance  or  assist  in  any  act  of  rapine  or 
violence.  For  undiluted  sin,  the  ancient  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 
were  Elysiums  of  social  order.  Taft  was  a  companion-piece  of 
Sheol.  Vinous  intoxication  was  a  common  habit  with  all  and  bar 
rooms  were  wide  open,  clamorous  and  throbbing  with  life  all 
night. 

Diddling  in  its  most  comprehensive  compass,  introducing  the 
antiquated  brace  game,  spirited  away  the  roll  of  the  horny- 
handed. 

There  were  dope  fiends,  comprising  hypodermic  shooters, 
sniffers,  snowbirds  and  "happy  dust"  devotees,  some  with  their 
nasal  organs  eaten  away  by  the  ravages  of  cocoaine  ' '  snortins, ' ' 
others  in  the  last  stages  of  habituation,  with  attenuated  shapes 
and  visages  as  white  as  the  artificial  snow  which  they  wantonly 
introduced  into  their  circulation,  and  existing  au  jour  le  jour. 
To  possess  the  crystals  in  the  pursuit  of  allaying  the  nerves  and 
under  the  hotspur  of  want,  these  became  willing  factors  in  ' '  con ' 1 
games  and  petty  thievery. 

A  hop-joint  opened  its  ebony  jaws,  thru  the  flaunting  porf- 
cocheres  of  which  a  constant  ingress  and  egress  of  ashen  and 
pasty-hued  wastrels  moved,  who  "hit  the  pipe"  and  dreamed 
away  the  lazy  foot  of  time. 

Pimps,  "macks,"  coistrels,  gilded  fops,  morons  and  defec- 
tives and  "secretaries"  living  together  in  lawless  and  extrava- 
gant lusts,  ablaze  with  glittering  gems,  elbowed  in  and  out  of 
these  flaunting  entrances  given  over  to  scandalized  etourderie 
and  racy  lasciviousness.  Their  white  slaves,  their  Phrynias  and 
Timandras  flashily  promenaded  in  millinery  and  dress  proclaim- 
ing^ latest  product  of  the  Parisian  couturier es,  simulating  in 
their  deportment  an  attitude  of  encouraging  the  most  audacious 
ogler.  Snow-white  ostrich  plumes  surmounted  their  hats,  and 
from  their  bejewelled  throats  to  the  tops  of  their  dainty  boots 
they  were  symphonies  in  diverse  colors.  On  their  supple  fingers 
big,  pure  diamonds  flashed.  Furs  were  common — sable,  chin- 
chilla, ermine— fashioned  like  their  hats  in  the  last  fantastic 
mode.    There  was  here  a  kaleidoscope  of  the  demi-mondaine, 


168 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


women  of  some  coquetries  and  redundant  charms ;  some  who  bore 
the  impress  of  a  late  gentility,  flowers  that  had  not  a  fair  chance 
to  bloom  in  the  garden  of  life,  because  of  defilement  by  the  worm 
of  poverty;  others  who  had  evidently  emerged  from  the  most 
unfathomable  depths  of  social  shadow.  Yet  all  were  attractive. 
I  neither  do  violence  to  the  truth  nor  do  I  draw  upon  my  im- 
agination when  I  declare  that  there  was  not  a  rechaufee  fleusy, 
not  a  withered  Jane  nor  a  decayed  crimp  in  the  whole  bunch. 
They  looked  young,  fresh  and  robust,  and  unlike  the  usual  cot- 
erie of  the  fair  sex  in  any  community,  displayed  the  color  which 
spoke,  and  which  needed  no  factitious  embellishment  to  enhance 
the  natural  charm.  They  presented  to  the  gaze  an  airy  and 
spirit  lifting  vision,  wildly  divine.  They  reflected  the  virtue 
of  Diana.  In  fact,  to  an  unqualified  stranger  within  the  gates 
of  Taft,  passing  them  upon  the  one-sided  thorofare  of  Taft,  one 
would  unhesitatingly  measure  them  as  sedate  and  home-keeping 
housewives.  The  purest  maiden's  skirts  could  not  be  untarn- 
ished by  the  gilded  dust  of  Taft.  But  La  Beaut e  sans  veftu  est 
une  fleur  sans  parfum! 

We  are  sometimes  deceived  by  the  appearance  of  rectitude, 
and  the  devil  himself  hath  power  to  assume  a  gracious  shape. 
Yet  it  is  a  notorious  fact  that  there  wasn't  during  Taft's  flush 
record,  in  it's  wide-open  and  inside-out  days,  in  it's  fierce  and 
unregenerate  life,  a  legally  married  woman  in  the  whole  town. 

Let  it  not  be  understood  either  by  the  subtlety  of  my  logic  or 
by  any  apparent  vanity  on  my  part  to  specially  boost  these  pink 
and  white  dolls  of  the  underworld,  dressed  in  fluffy  frocks,  that, 
conceding  their  unexcelled  personal  charm  and  that  their  en- 
semble reflected  unbleached  goods,  they  were  not  au  fait  in  the 
despicable  coquetries  of  4 'Mrs.  Warren's  profession."  Con- 
versely, they  possessed  all  of  the  bastard  virtues.  A  venture  into 
their  bagnios,  where  the  most  revolting  orgies,  where  the  deed  of 
darkness  was  even  committed  with  eunuchs — human  mavericks, 
where  immoralities  which  I  scarcely  dare  mention,  levities  that 
the  beau  monde  could  not  and  would  not  endorse,  were  daily 
practised  with  both  sexes,  was  liable  to  cost  a  pretty  penny ;  and 
it  is  known  that  persons  travelling  incognito  and  hazarding  their 
personalities  within  these  lewd  and  libidinous  chambers,  have 
suffered  the  loss  of  rhino  and  costly  bijouterie,  extracted  by  the 
nimble  digits  and  velvet  breadhooks  of  these  concubines,  aided 
and  abetted  by  their  parasitic  pimps.  There  were  as  well  women 
who  would  fill  one's  heart  with  pity,  but  would  empty  a  pocket- 
book. 

Courtisanes,  "lady  lovers,"  "soul  lepers"  and  sexual  per- 
verts as  nude  as  September  Morn,  who  drank  lust  and  corruption, 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


169 


were  on  exhibition  in  all  the  diverse  attitudes  exacted  by  the 
aesthetic  tastes  of  disgusting  immorality. 

Verily,  there  is  no  motion  that  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  I 
affirm  it  is  the  woman 's  part ! 

No  feature  of  rich,  rare  and  racy  lewdness  was  wanting  when 
it  is  stated  that  Taft  regaled  the  prurient  guest  within  its  gates, 
with  the  spectacle  of  a  specimen  of  the  third  sex,  domiciled  in  a 
tent  in  the  rear  of  the  main  carnival  of  sin. 

Six  faro  layouts  were  in  constant  operation  in  a  like  number 
of  saloons,  together  with  roulette  tables  and  wheels  of  fortune 
and  tables  for  baccarat,  ecarte,  solo,  pinochle  and  other  kindred 
games  of  chance,  the  keys  being  sunk  in  some  bottomless  pit. 

Dance  halls  and  a  variety  theatre  with  their  familiar  allure- 
ments of  the  wine  room  annex,  were  conducted  in  a  coarse  way, 
where  the  muscle  dance  was  executed  by  barnstorming  Salomes 
and  stall-fed  and  city-broke  fleusies  before  tango  lounge  lizards, 
nicotine  soaked  slobs,  cabaret  beetles,  pool-room  leeches,  barrel 
house  stiffs  and  pinchback  bums,  reclining  on  tiger  skins  and 
velvet  ottomans.  They  were  raw  to  the  limit  and  the  limit  was 
off. 

The  commission  of  the  capital  crime  was  rife.  The  criminal 
records  of  the  County  were  littered  with  prosecutions  entailing 
homicide  provoked  by  robbery,  but  the  major  number  of  these 
crimes  never  reached  the  courts.  This  was  principally  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  town  was  not  incorporated,  and  hence  no  public 
revenue  provided  for  the  protection  of  life  and  property.  These 
depredations  were  more  frequent,  therefore,  when  the  searching 
gaze  of  heaven  was  hid  behind  the  globe  and  lighted  the  lower 
world,  altho'  thieves  and  gentlemen  of  the  shade,  minions  of  the 
moon,  ranged  and  stalked  forth  under  the  rays  of  the  noonday 
sun.  It  would  dizzy  the  arithmetic  of  memory  to  speculate  upon 
the  number  of  lives  sacrificed  with  boots  on  in  the  indiscriminate 
pillage  and  slaughter — human  cadavers  upon  which  it  would  be 
utterly  futile  to  predicate  a  corpus  delicti;  but  it  is  known  as  an 
incontrovertible  fact  that  after  the  winter's  snow  had  melted 
in  the  early  spring  of  the  final  year  of  Taft's  carnival  of  crime 
and  lawlessness,  no  less  than  seventeen  bodies  were  discovered  on 
the  buttes  in  the  immediate  rear  of  the  dens  of  iniquity  and  sin. 
In  these  instances  the  dismal  process  of  decomposition  had  ad- 
vanced to  such  a  degree  that  identification  was  abortive. 

Conditions  became  so  notoriously  panicky  following  in  the 
trail  of  general  venality  that  the  edict  Delenda  est  Carthago  went 
forth;  the  fagot  was  applied  and  the  town  went  up  in  smoke  no 
less  than  three  different  times,  twice  thru  the  orders  of  the  rail- 
road company,  and  once  by  heaven's  frown  upon  the  revolting 


170 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


wickedness  and  desperate  crime  existence/  there,  this  latter  to 
propitiate  the  immortal  gods. 

Like  a  feline  dowered  with  nine  lives,  Taft  rose  Phoenix-like 
each  time  from  its  ashes,  and  its  final  overthrow  was  not  accom- 
plished until  the  forest  fires  of  1910.  Like  the  vermicular  crea- 
ture whose  caudal  appendage  wriggles  until  the  sun's  descent 
beyond  the  horizon^  it  at  last  grudgingly  gave  up  the  ghost. 

Sodom  sank,  Babylon  fell,  Rome  and  Pompeii  burned. 

Virginia  City,  Nevada,  where  the  Comstock,  the  Consolidated 
Virginia  and  the  big  bonanza  mines  worked  triple  shifts  in  the 
production  of  gold  and  silver,  has  faded  into  the  nimbus  of  noth- 
ingness; the  green  verdure  has  been  of  prolific  growth  on  the 
streets  of  Dodge  City  for  many  lustra ;  Deadwood  City,  Dakota, 
where  the  bleached  bones  of  Wild  Bill  and  Calamity  Jane,  pic- 
turesque Western  characters  in  their  day  are  buried,  is  now  a 
moribund  camp  in  the  midst  of  the  Black  Hills  and  the  owls  and 
crickets  long  ago  invaded  Creede,  Colorado  and  have  since  main- 
tained undisputed  empire. 

What  remains  of  Taft,  Montana,  may  be  incorporated  within 
the  compass  of  a  few  sententious  remarks. 

Happening  there  a  year  ago,  I  noticed  a  sprawling  splotch 
including  the  Post  Office,  one  solitary  struggling  saloon  and  a 
few  old  and  dilapidated  shacks.  Among  the  scattered  debris  of 
former  life  and  habitation,  there  was  a  noisome  and  unclean  sug- 
gestion of  decay.  A  faint,  spiced  odor  of  desiccation  filled  the 
scene.  The  dust  of  efflorescence  whitened  here  and  there.  The 
elements  had  picked  clean  the  bones  of  the  crumbling  shacks  as 
they  should  finally  absorb  it.  The  same  old  box  car  formerly 
utilized  as  a  depot,  stood  upon  the  right  of  way;  but  it  was 
barred  tighter  than  a  miser's  chest.  Passenger  trains  still 
stopped,  but  this  was  more  a  precautionary  measure  than  from 
any  other  consideration  on  account  of  the  proximity  of  the  three- 
mile  tunnel.  I  piped  a  few  gandy-dancers,  bindle  stiffs  and  a 
bevy  of  wop  lumber  jacks  as  the  sole  stragglers  of  this  deserted 
camp.  Transformed  from  what  it  was  in  former  days  as  a  noi- 
some quarter,  where  everything  bore  the  ineradicable  impress, 
the  very  leprosy  of  the  most  deplorable  degradation  and  of  the 
most  desperate  crime  to  the  tranquillity  of  the  interior  of  an 
ecclesiastical  tabernacle  on  a*  week  day,  it  is  at  once  amazing 
what  changes  a  few  years  bring  about  and  how  things  pass  away 
like  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Out  of  idle  curiosity,  I  entered  one  of  these  dilapidated  un- 
used shacks,  where  the  atmosphere  of  dry  rot  was  in  the  beams 
and  rafters,  and  a  score  of  other  recollections  arose  within  me 
as  I  descried  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling  all  calibres  of  leaden 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


171 


testimony  to  the  poor  marksmanship  of  the  habitues  of  these  hell 
holes  and  the  ticklish  calls  had  by  human  targets  in  running  fires 
and  in  vis-a-vis  scuffles.    My  thoughts  were  far,  very  far  away. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  Taft  teemed  with  desolation.  '  The 
vicinity  was  haunted  with  the  shadow  of  its  complete  desolation 
and  it  is  a  ghost  city  now. 

I  mused  :  1 1  Troy  was ;  Troy  is  no  more. ' '  No  warm  hand 
greeted  me  on  arrival ;  there  were  no  farewells  when  I  departed. 
I  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  altho'  during  the 
warm  days  there  was  much  of  what  happened  which  I  saw,  some 
of  which  I  was. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A  CORPSE  FOR  A  BEDFELLOW 


"Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself." 

— Macbeth. 

The  atmosphere  was  oscillating  between  thirty  and  forty  de- 
grees below  zero  one  night  in  January  not  long  ago,  as  I  climbed 
into  an  empty  "rattler"  of  an  East-bound  freight  train  in  the 
railroad  yards  at  Williston,  North  Dakota. 

As  the  train  rolled  along  the  frosted  metals,  a  rasping  sound 
detached  itself,  and  this  together  with  the  creakings  and  squeak- 
ings  of  the  cars  submitted  to  the  sudden  strain  of  locomotion, 
produced  a  clangor  that  set  my  nerves  tingling.  The  wind  was 
blowing  sibilant  whispers  that  I  construed  into  ominous  auguries 
and  the  flicker  of  lights  from  hamlets  as  we  passed  them,  be- 
speaking comfort  and  coziness  within,  gave  me  a  sensation  of 
loneliness  and  dread,  and  my  ears,  altho'  attuned  to  trifling  dis- 
turbances due  to  the  noise  and  groan  of  the  train,  were  more 
acute  now,  and  I  was  almost  holding  my  breath  in  an  effort  of 
acute  listening. 

Savants  of  the  occult  have  spread  the  gospel  of  premonition, 
and  we  also  have  our  philosophical  persons  who  make  modern  and 
familiar  things  supernatural  and  causeless,  and  while  I  am  ordin- 
arily a  man  of  stone  and  of  a  constitutionally  high-strung  tem- 
perament and  capable  of  subduing  that  temperament  at  times, 
that  I  become  temporarily  immune  from  human  dreads  and  icily 
cool  amid  universal  panic,  yet  amid  the  general  din,  the  very  at- 
mosphere seemed  pregnant  with  a  thousand  possibilities  more 
eerie  than  any  clangor.  The  situation  was  tense,  if  not  ghostly. 
The  imagination,  however,  might  be  magnifying  these  sounds  out 
of  all  proportion  to  their  actual  significance.  Meteors  fright  the 
fixed  stars  of  heaven  and  lean-looked  prophets  whisper  fearful 
change.  By  a  divine  instinct  men's  minds  mistrust  ensuing 
danger  and  their  hearts  are  full  of  fear,  as  when  we  see  the  water 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


173 


swell  before  a  boisterous  storm  or  when  we  witness  any  singular 
atmospheric  appearances.  There  are  moments  when  hideous 
suppositions  assail  us  like  a  band  of  furies  and  violently  force 
the  bolts  of  our  brain. 

There  were  warnings  and  portents  and  evils  ominous  this 
night,  and  the  awful  sub-consciousness  of  supreme  evil — from  the 
first  to  last  it  never  left  me.  Before  arguing,  and  before  I  came 
to  any  proper  decision,  my  sensibilities  were  suddenly  arrested, 
a  slight  jarring  thru  the  whole  frame  of  the  car,  a  grinding  and 
hissing  from  the  brakes,  and  a  dull  thud  told  me  that  the  train 
had  stopped. 

My  mind  was  rapidly  at  work  and  I  alighted  from  the  car, 
bent  on  finding  a  warmer  place  on  the  train.  I  explored  the  cars 
on  either  side,  found  nothing  suitable  and  before  one  could  say 
''Truly,  My  Lord,"  I  heard  the  highball  out  and  the  train  was 
moving  along.  At  each  jerk  the  momentum  seemed  greater,  and 
it  glided  from  me  and  left  me  in  the  gloom.  I  was  without  bene- 
fit of  clergy  deserted  at  this  water  tank,  destined  like  the  one 
who  was  alone  in  London  and  the  bird  that  was  lost  in  Paris. 
The  wind  was  howling  a  monotonous  requiem  and  there  was  not 
a  flicker  of  light  within  the  broad  expanse,  save  the  fleeting  after- 
glow, the  red  danger  signal  of  the  retreating  train,  which  faded 
from  me  like  the  genii  in  the  Arabian  Knights.  The  single  thing 
that  gave  me  heart  was  the  light  which  the  snow  afforded,  irradi- 
ated like  out  stretched  wings  and  the  phosphorescent  gleam  of 
the  gelid  moon. 

All  the  visible  world  was  wrapped  in  a  snowy,  winding  sheet 
of  snow.  It  had  fallen  with  vigorous,  relentless  insistence;  and 
the  wind  was  blowing  as  from  Saturn 's  Cave.  The  frost  was  un- 
doubtedly on  the  pumpkin  and  the  corn  was  in  the  shock.  An- 
other thing  that  gave  me  heart  was  the  fact  that  there  was  sil- 
houetted against  the  whiteness  of  the  snow,  a  water  tank,  but 
there  was  no  box  car  upon  the  siding.  The  Gloomy  Gus  overcoat 
that  comforted  me  I  relied  upon,  but  this  and  the  rest  of  my 
garments  were  only  partially  proof  against  the  elements  which 
now  rose  with  terrific  intensity.  My  toes  were  beginning  to  get 
torpid,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  kept  moving  in  order 
to  sustain  the  circulation  and  my  teeth  were  clacking  like  casta- 
nets from  the  cold. 

I  was  withal  startled  by  the  pale  glow  of  the  great  silent  white 
loveliness  around  me.  There  is  nothing  so  melancholy  as  the 
light  produced  by  the  double  whiteness  of  moon  and  snow,  or 
more  depressing  than  a  large  expanse  of  stagnant  water. 

While  walking  along  the  track  in  quest  of  some  haven  of 
shelter,  my  eye  descried  a  field  full  of  little  Alps  below  the  twink- 


174 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ling  stars.  They  were  hay  stacks.  I  selected  the  first  one  that 
I  came  to,  after  having  drilled  thru  the  white-feathered  snow 
and  the  stubble  rimed  with  frost,  and  applied  a  match.  It  was 
reduced  to  ashes  in  a  half  hour,  and  as  I  was  mulling  over  in  my 
mind  the  evanescence  of  all  earthly  things,  a  long  freight  train, 
East-bound,  pulled  up  for  water,  and,  finding  an  "empty,"  I 
threw  myself  into  its  bowels.  It  soon  whistled  out  and  I  was 
on  my  way,  altho'  I  knew  not  whither  I  was  going. 

As  I  paced  the  floor  of  the  car  to  and  fro,  I  stumbled  over 
some  substance  which  offered  an  indescribable  mixture  of  re- 
sistance, firm  and  loose.  It  was  a  lump  of  something — a  lump  of 
unconscious  something  lay  at  one  end  of  the  car.  I  struck  a 
match,  and  in  the  glare,  discovered  a  human  form  huddled  up 
in  a  heap,  apparently  asleep.  I  resumed  my  perambulations, 
first  closing  both  doors  of  the  car  which  were  wide  open  when  I 
entered.  For  fully  an  hour  the  train  rambled  along,  during 
which  time  I  paced  the  floor  in  an  effort  to  keep  up  the  circula- 
tion, but  finally  overcome  by  drowsiness,  superinduced  by  the 
"shot"  of  morphine,  I  lighted  some  old  newspapers  and  rags 
at  the  feet  of  the  sleeper,  thereby  creating  a  small  feu  de  joie, 
laid  myself  down  beside  the  huddled  form  and  surrendered  my- 
self to  the  seduction  of  slumber  and  the  chancery  of  dreams. 

I  must  have  dozed  somewhat  from  sheer  exhaustion,  for  I 
awoke  from  the  dreams  of  an  opium-eater  and  with  a  stifled  cry 
found  my  hand  clasped  in  icy  fingers.  I  also  found  that  the 
fire  at  our  feet  had  communicated  to  the  clothing  of  my  bed- 
fellow and  I  set  to  work  to  subdue  the  flame.  It  is  needless  to 
say  how  I  did  this ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  I  smudged  it  out. 

Now,  inasmuch  as  the  heat  from  the  bonfire  erected  at  the 
feet  of  the  sleeper,  the  smoke  issuing  therefrom  and  the  rumble 
of  the  train,  failed  to  arouse  him,  my  mind  became  surcharged 
by  a  batch  of  morbid  speculations  and  my  whole  being  went  up 
in  the  air  of  speculation.  Whether  I  was  right  side  up  or  upside 
down,  I  did  not  know.  Perfunctorily  I  tried  to  awaken  the  silent 
form  by  vigorous  kicking,  but  with  negligible  results.  Fearing 
nothing,  yet  fearing  everything,  I  turned  the  body  over  on  its 
back;  it  seemed  as  mute  as  fish,  as  dumb  as  marble.  I  struck 
a  match  and  held  the  light  over  the  visage,  and  it  was  then  that 
I  found  that  the  subject  was  as  immovable  as  the  Sphinx,  as  un- 
revealing  as  the  tomb.  The  magic  wheels  and  wizard  pinions  of 
life  were  inert.  The  limbs  were  rigid,  the  lips  were  livid,  the 
vitreous  eyes  were  presumably  riveted  in  death.  The  teeth  were 
bared  and  glistened  and  grinned  at  me  in  an  uncanny  way,  and 
a  congealed  froth  was  on  the  lips.  There  was  here  the  icy  chilli- 
ness, the  livid  hue,  the  intense  rigidity,  the  sunken  outline  and 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


175 


all  of  the  loathsome  peculiarities  of  that  which  has  been  for  some 
days  a  tenant  of  the  tomb.  The  pasty  face  leered  at  me  and  at 
its  sight,  I  experienced  a  sudden  nausea  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  under  similar  circumstances,  for  in  my  time  I  had  seen  a 
great  number  of  dead  people ;  for  instance,  at  San  Francisco 
during  the  earthquake  and  then  again  at  the  Galveston  horror, 
and  at  these  places  I  saw  numberless  bodies  in  temporary  mor- 
gues. I  was  also  at  Brother's  Island,  when  the  "General  Slo- 
cum"  burned,  and  there  witnessed  many  agonizing  scenes  of 
death,  and  in  other  instances,  I  had  rescued  bodies  mutilated  be- 
yond description.  So  that  a  dead  person,  for  the  single  reason 
that  he  is  dead,  does  not  repel  me,  and  altho'  I  knew  that  there 
was  no  hope  that  the  subject  here  was  alive,  still  for  decency's 
sake,  I  felt  the  pulse  and  pulled  open  the  shirt  and  placed  my 
hand  upon  the  heart.  This  done,  I  assembled  the  morphine  lay- 
out and  prepared  one-fourth  of  a  grain  of  morphine  in  solution 
and  injected  it  into  the  left  arm.  This  was  the  final  test.  There 
is  no  use  to  tell  the  reader  how  I  felt  as  I  stood  by  the  body  or 
the  thoughts  that  came  into  my  head.  I  felt  bitterly  sorry  for 
this  human  derelict,  and  at  the  same  time,  selfishly  concerned 
for  my  own  safety  and  for  the  notoriety  which  was  sure  to  fol- 
low. My  instinct  was  to  leave  the  body  where  it  lay,  and  this 
hunch  I  followed.  But  before  deserting  it,  I  was  completely  en- 
gulfed in  strange,  unfathomable  emotions  that  surged  over  me. 
This  was  mainly  in  reference  to  the  sex  of  the  subject.  I  had  a 
miniature  wax  candle  which  I  invariably  carried  for  mixing  dope 
in  dark  places,  and  in  my  survey  of  the  face  and  in  rolling  up  the 
sleeve  of  the  subject,  I  was  at  once  struck  with  the  delicate  ef- 
feminacy of  the  corpse.  I  knew  that  it  was  a  corpse.  I  did  not 
know  that  it  was  that  of  a  female,  however,  until  from  my  ex- 
amination joined  to  my  conclusions  deduced  from  experimental 
psychology,  I  was  satisfied  beyond  a  doubt  that  it  was,  altho' 
dressed  in  the  habiliments  of  a  man. 

The  consciousness  of  these  truths  under  the  unique,,  circum- 
stances here  detailed  was  like  an  electric  shock  of  a  terror  deadly 
and  indefinite,  which  sends  the  blood  in  torrents  from  the  tem- 
ples to  the  heart.  The  ghastly  face  haunted  me,  altho'  in  life 
it  must  have  been  the  pivot  of  adorable  concentration  due  to  the 
singularly  beautiful  face  and  its  youth,  probably  the  adolescent 
period  between  sixteen  and  twenty  years  of  ago.  To  gain  con- 
trol of  my  treacherous  nerves,  I  jabbed  the  hypodermic  into  the 
tissues  of  my  own  arm. 

I  cannot,  therefore,  dwell  upon  the  end  of  my  encounter  with 
this  corpse ;  I  cannot  hope  to  make  acceptable  to  my  readers  an 
account  of  how  I  escaped  from  that  car.    All  that  I  now  remem- 


176 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ber  is  that  my  stunned  sensibilities  were  revived  by  my  person 
coming  in  contact  with  some  frozen  surface,  and  a  long  string 
of  cars  was  rapidly  passing  before  my  petrified  gaze. 

Chilled  by  the  cold  and  lacerated  by  my  dive  from  the  car,  I 
made  for  the  open  country,  and  following  the  electric  illumina- 
tion of  the  town  to  which  we  had  been  speeding,  I  covertly  en- 
tered the  first  lodging  house  that  I  came  to  and  retired  in  the 
arms  of  the  morphine  god. 

Let  me  finish.  There  were  some  gruesome  details  disclosed 
at  the  autopsical  examination  two  days  thereafter  upon  the  body 
of  this  female  derelict.  But  the  singular  thing  about  the  case 
is  that  a  coroner's  jury  returned  a  verdict  that  the  deceased 
came  to  her  death  from  a  combination  of  circumstances — from 
morphine  poisoning  administered  by  herself  with  suicidal  intent 
and  from  having  been  frozen  to  death.  The  jury  could  not  say 
which.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  evidence  showed  that  the  sub- 
ject had  been  a  sybarite  and  morphine  fiend,  and  in  support  of 
this  latter,  a  hypodermic  syringe  and  a  bottle  of  morphine  was 
found  upon  her  person,  and  her  body  was  disfigured  by  purplish 
punctures. 

How  cynical  a  stuff  life  is!    Is  it  not  a  far  away  echo? 

When  it  is  reflected  how  easy  it  is  sometimes  to  convict  an 
innocent  man  upon  circumstantial  evidence,  it  is  at  once  indefin- 
able how  Fate,  with  a  chuckle  and  working  in  mysterious  ways, 
turns  the  unexpected  upside  down  and  saves  us  from  the  fire- 
works, and  sometimes  when  the  dark  is  darkest,  Fate  steps  in 
and  lights  the  heavens  with  a  beautiful  glow.  I  had  in  my  pos- 
session at  this  time  a  cargo  of  morphine  which  I  carried  as  a 
chronic  habitue,  and  all  of  the  accessories,  and  I  could  have  put 
to  eternal  sleep,  death  and  deadly  night  a  thousand  units  of  the 
sons  of  men  ministering  to  them,  and  had  I  been  apprehended 
for  this  crime  and  formally  proceeded  against,  I  shudder  as  I 
moralize  on  the  eventualities. 

In  whatever  light  in  which  it  may  be  regarded,  it  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  the  jury  believed  that  the  girl  had  an  abiding  faith 
in  the  grandeur  of  pagan  philosophy,  for  did  not  Epictetus  say 
in  the  early  centuries:  "As  for  death,  there  is  nothing  in  death 
to  move  our  laughter  or  our  tears  ? ' ' 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  CLOCK  STRUCK  THIRTEEN 


"/n  the  most  high  and  mighty  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  'ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell, 
The  graves  stood  tenantless  and  the  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets." 

— Hamlet. 

Madness  physiologically  urged  is  the  loftiest  intelligence. 
Yet  I  am  not  mad,  and  the  days  of  my  wanton  indulgence  in 
opium  having  ended,  I  therefore  cease  to  dream.  I  offer  this 
as  an  antecedent  proposition  lest  the  terrible  tale  of  whimsicality 
which  I  am  about  to  put  on  record  should  be  considered  rather 
the  raving  of  a  crude  imagination  than  the  positive  experience 
of  a  mind  to  which  the  reveries  of  fancy  have  long  been  a  nullity. 
Oftimes  we  are  prone  to  attribute  the  fanciful  to  very  natural 
causes  and  effects,  rather  than  to  some  bizarre  or  rare  combina- 
tion of  events  and  all  the  horrors  that  romancers  suppose  they 
have  invented  are  still  below  the  truth.  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
ridiculed  as  a  superstitious  dreamer;  on  the  other  hand,  I  could 
not  ask  you  to  accept  on  my  affirmation  what  you  would  hold 
to  be  incredible,  without  the  evidence  of  your  own  senses. 

The  singular  events  which  I  here  pen  involve  the  abnormal 
in  psychical  experiences,  an  experience  so  grotesque  that  it  bord- 
ers on  the  ludicrous.  It  is  a  voodoo  tale  that  is  in  that  dim  re- 
gion which  stretches  from  the  very  utmost  limits  of  the  probable 
into  the  weird  confines  of  superstition  and  unreality.  It  is 
neither  fiction  nor  romance,  but  plain,  earnest,  veritable  truth, 
involving  the  marvelous,  the  mysterious,  the  unseen  in  nature 
and  is  to  be  carefully  tested  by  the  requirements  of  reasonable 
probability.  It  may  seem  so  incredible  that  one  can  hardly 
blame  those  who  could  not  believe  it  possible.  I  should  have  been 
skeptical  myself  if  I  had  not  myself  viewed  the  astounding  sight. 

For  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated,  and  to  those  who  believe 
in  spirits  or  in  second  sight,  or  in  crystal  gazing  or  the  doctrines 


178 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


of  Mesmer  and  Cagliostro,  to  those  who  repose  a  fantastic  faith 
in  wood-spirits,  goblins  of  the  rock  and  river-fiends,  let  me  open 
the  gates  and  call  up  the  midnight  ghosts. 

In  the  twilight  of  an  antumn  evening,  I  dived  from  the 
"guts"  of  a  "rattler"  and  discovered  myself  in  Ennis,  Texas. 
Being  a  little  more  heavily  drugged  than  usual,  I  cast  about  for 
some  couch  whereon  to  recline  my  body,  fatigued  from  desultory 
travel,  and  to  lay  my  fevered  head  upon  the  pillow  of  forgetful- 
ness.  Truly  has  it  been  philosophised  that  our  foster  mother 
nature  is  repose.  As  I  shambled  aimlessly  along  the  walk  my 
myotic  eye  caught  a  sign  which  announced  "Lodging."  From 
its  unpretentious  appearance,  and  the  fact  that  it  was  somewhat 
distant  from  the  pulse  of  business  activity,  I  thought  that  the 
rate  would  be  in  harmony  with  my  depleted  purse. 

The  curved  feather  of  a  new  moon  hung  in  the  west  and 
stars  danced  in  the  dull  October  sky.  The  house  was  perched 
on  a  wooded  ridge  some  rods  from  the  highway,  the  entrance 
guarded  by  a  toll  gate  from  which  ran  a  pathway  carpeted  in 
golden  leaves  and  canopied  by  bright  hued  boughs.  Contemplat- 
ing the  rich,  the  melancholy  landscape — the  tall  trees  surrender- 
ing to  the  wind  their  grotesque  plumage ;  the  scarlet  sage,  whose 
flashing  color  was  beginning  to  fade ;  the  crimson  sumach,  pour- 
ing out  its  heart  blood  by  the  way — I  was  lost  in  a  dream  of  the 
happy  summer,  whose  afterglow  was  reflected  in  the  mellow 
haze  of  autumn  light. 

It  was  a  stately  dwelling  hidden  away  in  the  gloomy  wood- 
land, and  its  front  yard  was  bisected  with  mathematical  pre- 
cision by  a  gravel  walk  from  gate  to  door,  and  strewn  with 
myxomycetes.  It  lay  mostly  in  the  shifting  shadows.  The  front 
of  the  house  was  heavily  curtained  with  an  enormous  grape  vine, 
encircling  one  of  the  carved  pillars  of  the  front  porch  like  a 
gigantic  serpent,  and  the  vacant  upper  windows  peer  thru  it  at 
the  old  burying  ground  across  the  way  and  seemingly  find  a 
companionship  in  its  grassy  hillocks  and  sunken  hollows,  its 
headstones  of  slate  and  sandstone  standing  awry  or  toppling  to 
their  fall.  In  this  burying  ground  are  rude  monuments  for  the 
most  part  with  uncouth  sculptures  of  grisly  death's  heads  and 
spade  and  scythe. 

As  I  gazed  at  the  old  mansion,  these  windows  looked  back  at 
me  with  a  desolate  and  sad-eyed  expression  thru  the  vines  which 
seem  a  veil  of  crape  partly  withdrawn,  and  thru  blinding  cob- 
webs which  might  well  suggest  a  mist  of  tears.  It  undoubtedly 
had  a  haunted  look  and  reflected  tke  traditional  spookery,  with 
its  oppressive  shadows.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  place  reflected 
the  negative  joys  of  a  once  peaceful  life.   The  gloomy  silence  was 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


179 


unbroken  save  by  birds,  martins,  mice  and  rats.  The  habitation 
contained  some  secret,  some  mysterious  thought,  for  certainly  it 
seemed  a  sanctuary  which  looked  the  most  varied  images  of 
human  life  darkened  by  sorrows.  I  thought  even  that  the  aspect 
of  nature  about  the  place  was  evil,  and  now,  to  support  the  fancy, 
there  was  a  dead  silence  round  about — silence  and  darkness — 
solemn  sisters — silence  how  dead,  and  darkness  how  profound ! 
It  seemed  that  I  was  amid  the  shadows  and  the  whispering,  the 
shapeless  things  and  the  wailing  and  sighing  that  hover  between 
this  world  and  the  hereafter.  It  seemed  that  in  the  pallid  rose 
bushes  before  the  house  white  spectral  things  and  inky  shadows 
lay  deathlike  in  the  gloom.  It  was  almost  forlorn  and  melan- 
choly, surely  an  unholy  place,  steeped  deep  with  the  indelible 
stain  of  some  black  story,  some  tragic  end. 

Regardless  of  these  considerations,  I  entered  the  place  and 
after  having  ransacked  the  whole  house  upstairs  and  downstairs, 
I  found  not  a  solitary  tenant.  I  selected  one  of  these  chambers 
wherein  there  was  a  bed,  a  table  with  an  oil  burner  and  other 
debris  of  an  inn  of  former  glory.  I  was  alone  in  this  tenement 
of  faint,  sad  odors  and  mournful  sighing  draughts;  alone  save 
for  a  mind  stocked  with  somewhat  melancholy  fancies,  dull,  soli- 
tary and  damp.  I  sensed  the  place  as  full  of  a  weird,  hushed 
sound,  like  the  rustle  of  garments  or  the  swish  of  the  wings  of 
water-fowl.  The  bed,  however,  looked  peaceable  and  inviting, 
not  at  all  the  gaunt,  funereal  sort  of  couch  which  haunted  apart- 
ments generally  contain. 

It  was  now  after  nightfull,  so  after  the  injection  of  a  copious 
"shot"  of  morphine  into  the  tissues,  I  consigned  my  body  be- 
twixt the  sheets,  drew  the  drapery  of  the  couch  about  me  and 
dreamed  of  the  rosy  dawn,  the  brilliant  sunlight,  the  purple 
disks  of  the  Orient,  the  enchantment  of  strange,  far-eastern 
countries,  the  subtle,  languorous  sweetness  of  tropical  gardens 
and  of  blossom-laden  breezes,  blown  from  palm-fringed  islands 
set  in  turquoise  seas. 

Notwithstanding  the  radiance  of  this  opium  dream,  some 
damnable  deity  bodied  forth  weird  and  uncanny  spirits,  evil  and 
cruel  wraiths  and  eidolons,  that  made  the  night  hideous  by  their 
eerie  knocks  and  inoculated  in  my  soul  a  belief  in  the  existence 
of  evil  genii,  and  that  the  spirit  goes  marching  on  after  exhala- 
tion from  its  mortal  prison  in  these  funereal  damps.  From  early 
evening  until  the  gray  dawn  the  unspeakable  horrors  of  that 
night  were  enacted  in  a  hideous  drama  before  my  appalled  senses. 

I  do  not  remember  how  long  I  had  slept.  I  must  have  been 
conscious  during  this  slumber  of  my  inability  to  keep  myself 
covered  by  the  bed  clothes,  for  I  awoke  once  or  twice  clutching 


180 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


them  with  a  despairing  hand,  as  they  were  disappearing  over  the 
foot  of  the  couch.  Then  I  became  suddenly  aroused  to  the  fact 
that  my  efforts  to  retain  them  were  resisted  by  some  equally  per- 
sistent force,  and,  letting  them  go,  I  was  horrified  at  seeing  them 
swiftly  drawn  under  the  bed.  At  this  point  I  sat  up,  completely 
awake.  Up  to  this  time  cavernous  silence  reigned  in  this  sepul- 
chral habitation.  Then  came  loud  rappings  from  the  back  of  the 
bed;  after  this,  a  thrumming  against  the  wall.  A  most  un- 
accountable antipathy  came  over  me  in  this,  my  temporary  abode. 
There  is  a  feeling  of  dislike  or  apprehension  with  which  we  re- 
gard at  first  sight  certain  places  and  people,  and  this  was  not 
implanted  in  us  without  some  wholesome  purpose.  I  felt  this 
antipathy  strongly  as  I  looked  around  me  in  my  new  sleeping 
room  with  the  aid  of  light  from  the  oil  burner.  However,  finally 
concluding  that  the  sensations  mentioned  might  be  a  fanciful 
picture  drawn  from  the  imagination  superinduced  by  heavy  ex- 
cesses, I  blew  out  the  light  and  tried  to  submit  to  the  encroach- 
ments of  slumber;  but  before  I  could  automatically  yield,  there 
succeeded  a  thunderous  clattering  of  some  heavy  material  upon 
the  panel  of  the  bed  just  back  of  my  pillow.  This  strange  sound 
was  succeeded  by  one  actually  sepulchral  in  its  resonance,  as  of 
a  soul  in  distress  pouring  out  its  lamentations  in  sibilant  gesticu- 
lations, and  the  strangest  sobbing  noises  came  from  the  hollow 
wainscoating  of  that  strange  old  dwelling  place;  there  then 
sounded  a  slight  rattle  against  the  ceiling  like  hail  tattooing  the 
roof ;  then  a  strange  calm  seemed  to  wrap  the  room  in  its  empti- 
ness and  vagueness. 

The  distressed  souls,  if  such  they  were,  had  evidently  con- 
cluded a  temporary  armistice. 

I  was  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  ghostly  creature  in  the  room, 
of  dim  outlines  and  uncertain  proportions — one  moment  it 
seemed  to  pervade  the  entire  apartment,  while  at  another  it 
would  become  invisible,  but  always  leaving  behind  it  a  distinct 
consciousness  of  its  existence.  It  was  a  malignant  presence,  I 
now  believed,  some  foul  offspring  of  darkness  and  accursed  in- 
genuity, some  hateful  spawn  of  wizard  art  and  black  mother 
night,  some  link  between  the  worlds  of  substance  and  of  shadow. 
Superstition  is  not  my  weakness,  yet  some  mysterious  apprehen- 
sion of  a  strange  force  made  me  tremble,  and  I  became  vaccinated 
with  the  ignes  fatui  of  this  delusion.  I  kept  as  passive  as  I 
could,  yet  I  knew  that  I  was  absorbed  in  a  lethargy  of  suspense. 
How  strange  that  a  simple  feeling  of  discomfort,  impeded  or 
heightened  circulation,  perhaps  the  irritation  of  a  nervous 
thread,  a  slight  congestion,  a  small  disturbance  in  the  imperfect 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


181 


and  delicate  functions  of  our  living  machinery  makes  a  light- 
hearted  man  melancholy  and  makes  a  coward  of  the  bravest! 

Dread  is  the  emotion  that  precedes  all  others.  I  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  mystery. 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  gentle  tapping  which  appeared  to  come 
from  the  wall.  The  sound  was  such  as  might  have  been  made  by 
a  human  hand.  Most  of  us,  I  fancy,  have  had  more  experience 
of  such  communications  than  we  would  care  to  relate.  This 
tapping  was  repeated  with  the  same,  gentle,  slow  insistence  as 
before.  The  instance  was  not  in  itself  particularly  mysterious. 
Any  one  of  a  dozen  explanations  was  possible ;  yet  it  impressed 
me  strangely. 

At  this  I  rose  from  the  bed,  gained  the  floor  and  stepped  over 
to  the  table  to  relume  the  oil  burner,  but  before  I  could  accom- 
plish this,  some  invisible  object  sent  me  back  to  the  bed.  As  I  sat 
upon  the  bed,  I  was  chained  to  the  spot  by  observing  an  appari- 
tion in  filmy  frippery  which  actually  walked  in  a  haze  of  auroral 
lustre  before  my  terror-stricken  orbs  and  beamed  in  sepulchral 
ghastliness  before  me.  Need  it  be  said  how  wild  and  wonderful 
that  charmless  apparition  seemed  in  that  uncouth  place,  how  the 
hot  flash  of  wonder  burnt  upon  my  swart  and  weathered  cheeks, 
as  I  sat  there  and  glared  at  that  pallid  outline? 

For  some  moments  I  stared  back  at  the  apparition,  and 
actually  projected  myself  into  the  Karmic  aura  of  the  intruder. 
Then,  rousing  myself,  I  stood  up  very  quickly  and  stepped  across 
the  room.  As  I  did  so,  the  figure  vanished  in  the  darkness  at 
the  other  side,  while  a  long,  drawn-out,  melancholy  sigh  quavered 
thru  the  apartment.  It  seemed  that  the  same  waft  of  air  that 
had  conspired  to  its  creation  shredded  it  out  again  into  the  fine, 
thin  webs  of  disappearing  haze.  I  now  opened  the  door  of  the 
chamber  which  opened  out  on  a  portico,  and  peered  into  the 
darkness.  The  portico  was  wholly  untenanted  and  I  returned 
to  the  bed.  No  noise  or  vision  broke  the  blank  and  yet  a  coward 
chill  was  on  me,  for  here  and  there  was  moving  something  unseen, 
unheard,  unfelt  by  outer  senses.  I  rose  and  fearful  and  yet 
angry  to  be  cowed  by  a  dreadful  nothing,  stared  into  every 
corner,  but  naught  was  there.  I  know  not  how  long  it  was, 
some  hour  most  likely  that  I  slept  under  the  influence  of  the 
drug,  and  the  strangest  feeling  took  possession  of  me  in  that 
chamber  and  a  fine,  ethereal  terror,  purged  of  gross  material 
fear,  possessed  my  spirit.  I  awoke,  not  with  the  pleasant  drowsi- 
ness which  marks  refreshment,  but  wide  and  staring  and  my 
hair,  without  the  cause  of  sight  or  sound  stood  stiff  upon  my 
head,  for  something  was  moving  in  the  room. 

I  dozed  again  in  happy  forgetfulness  of  the  present,  while 


i8fi 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  black  night  wore  on  to  morning,  and  then  I  started  up  with 
every  nerve  within  me  thrilling,  my  clenched  fists  on  my  knees 
and  my  wide  eyes  glaring  into  the  gloom,  for  the  strange  nothing 
was  moving  once  more  about  me,  fanning  me  it  seemed  with  the 
rhythmed  swing  of  unseen  draperies,  circling  in  soft  cadenced 
circles  here  and  there. 

Resolved  to  explore  this  mystery,  I  relighted  the  lamp  and 
looked  about  me.  I  drew  the  curtain  of  the  single  window  of 
the  room  and  gazed  into  the  subterrene  night.  Darkness  was 
there  as  dense  as  the  wing  of  that  ominous  bird  of  the  tempest 
and  the  night's  plutonian  shore.  A  slow  mournful  rain  came 
down  in  muffled  drops  against  the  window  with  lugubrious  tin- 
tinnabulation. The  ormolu  on  a  mantlepiece  ticked  loudly,  but 
the  beating  of  my  heart  was  still  louder.  I  fixed  my  eyes  steadily 
upon  the  dial  and  awaited  its  tolling.  Its  hands  were  about  to 
cross  the  bridge  of  midnight,  and  at  that  very  instant  it  struck 
with  a  sound  like  the  whisper  of  a  distant  sea:  ONE,  TWO, 
THREE,  FOUR,  FIVE,  SIX,  SEVEN,  EIGHT,  NINE,  TEN, 
ELEVEN,  TWELVE  and  the  fateful  and  ominous  THIRTEEN. 

I  lighted  a  cigarette  for  the  sake  of  diversion,  and  awaited 
the  passage  of  time  with  a  tenseness  that  would  have  arrested 
the  heart  of  many  a  mortal  endowed  with  nerves  of  steel,  and 
curdled  the  very  blood  in  hearts  less  irrevocably  on  fire.  I 
incessantly  puffed  on  the  sweet  caporal  and  at  the  end  of  an 
hour  by  the  clock,  I  ' '  doused  the  glim"  and  sat  upon  the  edge 
of  the  bed  in  anticipation  of  further  developments.  It  was 
madness  to  do  it,  but  my  curiosity  ramped  free  and  overcame 
all  dread.  It  was  truly  strange,  and  I  waited  for  anything  that 
might  come  next  with  calm  resignation — a  listless  faith  in  the 
integrity  of  chance,  which  put  me  beyond  all  those  gusty  emo- 
tions of  hope  and  fear  which  play  thru  fledging  hearts.  I  fell 
a-ruminating,  my  chin  upon  my  hands,  upon  a  hundred  episodes 
of  happiness  and  fear.  "Oh,  strange,  eternal  powers  who  set 
the  goings  and  comings  of  humanity,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this  wild  riddle  of  spirits  you  are  reading  me?"  I  said  presently 
aloud  to  myself,  and  intending  it  for  the  supernatural  intruder. 
As  I  muttered  this  to  myself,  I  glanced  about  and  strange  to  tell, 
stranger  to  hear,  there  came  from  out  of  the  void,  unmistakably 
the  words: 

"I  am  a  murderer." 

Again  I  brooded  and  then  presently  looked  up,  and  there,  by 
the  bones  of  Saint  Antony,  between  me  and  the  wall,  over  against 
the  fitful  sparkle  of  the  lamp,  was  a  thin,  impalpable  form  that 
oscillated  gently  to  the  draughts  creeping  along  the  floor  and 
grew  taller  and  taller,  and  took  mortal  air  and  shape,  and  rose 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


183 


out  of  nebulous  indistinctness  into  a  fine  ethereal  substance,  and 
was  clothed  and  visaged  by  the  concentration  of  its  impalpable 
material. 

That  man  was  never  brave  who  has  not  feared,  and  then  for 
a  moment  I  feared,  leaping  to  my  feet  and  staggering  back 
against  the  wall  under  the  terrible  focus  of  those  eyes  that  burnt 
into  my  being  with  a  relentless  fire  that  I  could  not  have  shunned 
if  I  would  and  would  not  if  I  could.  For  some  time  I  was  thus 
motionless  and  fascinated,  and  then  the  shadow  which  had  been 
regarding  me  intently  appeared  to  perceive  the  cause  of  my 
enthralment,  veiled  the  terrible  bewitchment  of  its  face.  As  it 
did  so,  I  was  myself  again,  my  blood  welled  into  my  empty  veins, 
my  heart  knocked  fiercely  at  my  ribs.  I  became  surcharged  with 
vengeance  and  made  one  mad  leap  to  close  with  it,  and  ever  as  I 
nearly  closed  with  it,  it  moved  backward,  now  here  and  now 
there,  mocking  my  foolish  hope  and  passing  impalpable  over  the 
floor,  until  the  uselessness  of  pursuit  at  last  dawned  upon  me 
and  I  stood  irresolute. 

I  little  doubt  that  immaterial  immortal  would  have  mustered 
courage  or  strength  to  speak  to  me  but  it  sighed  heavily  at  this 
moment  and  seemed  so  ill  at  ease,  that,  without  a  thought,  I 
turned  to  observe  it. 

When  my  eyes  sought  the  opposite  side  again,  the  presence 
was  not  half  itself ;  under  my  very  glance  it  was  being  absorbed 
once  more  by  the  dusky  air.  To  let  it  go  like  that  was  all  against 
my  will  and  leaping  to  those  printless  feet,  I  called:  "Stay 
another  moment,  you  black  demon  of  hell ! ' '  and  as  I  said  it,  I 
swept  my  arms  round  the  last  vestige  of  its  airy  kirtle  and  drew 
into  my  bosom  an  armful  of  empty  air.  This  ghost,  like  all 
ghosts,  eluded  equally  my  vision  and  my  desire. 

With  the  extinguishment  of  the  light,  I  prepared  to  become 
a  bed  lizard  and  sleep,  but  no  sooner  had  I  placed  myself  in 
position,  when  a  hellish  legion  of  sprites  and  hobgoblins  sallied 
forth  upon  the  exterior  of  the  house.  This  invisible  assembly 
broke  forth  in  a  bedlam  of  weird  sounds.  The  window  panes 
rattled  and  a  sound  came  from  the  roof  as  if  the  chimney  had 
suddenly  fallen  in  and  shaking  the  house  to  its  very  foundations. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  there  came  a  pause  and  then  the  fall  of  a 
Titanian  hammer  outside,  a  rending,  resounding  crash  that 
shook  mother  earth  right  down  to  her  innermost  ribs.  It  seemed 
that  the  imps  of  hell  were  loosed  from  Satan's  thraldom. 

Palsied  by  fear,  I  reached  for  the  lamp,  when  the  white 
fingers  of  some  palpable,  yet  invisible  ghost  passed  by  my  per- 
son and  accolladed  me  on  the  deltoids.  At  this,  I  confess  that 
my  hair  rose  as  it  is  said  to  do  when  a  spirit  passes  away.  I 


184 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


must  have  lapsed  into  coma,  for  some  minutes  later  my  sluggish 
sensibilities  revived,  and  I  was  reeking  in  a  deluge  of  perspira- 
tion. I  applied  the  sputtering  flame  to  the  lamp  wick  and  re- 
solved to  sit  out  the  remainder  of  the  morning  in  silent  cogita- 
tion and  lonely  caution,  and  explore  this  grotesque  and  sinister 
mystery  which  o'ershadowed  me  A  fond  on  the  morrow.  I  sat 
for  an  hour  and  thought — thought  of  all  the  rosy  pictures  of  the 
past,  of  all  the  bright  beams  of  love  I  had  seen  shine  in  maiden 
eyes,  all  the  joys  and  success,  all  the  sorrow  and  pleasure  of  my 
chequered  life. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  oppression  that  I  maintained  a  status 
of  wakefulness  even  by  the  aid  of  cigarettes  and  intermittent 
sentry  duty  on  the  floor.  Having  a  pack  of  marked  gamblers' 
cards,  I  indulged  in  a  game  of  solitaire  to  ward  off  dark 
thoughts.  But  now,  even  in  the  lurid  sheen  of  the  lamp,  I 
fancied  that  I  saw  some  mute,  voiceless,  presenceless  spirit,  so 
real  and  tangible  to  some  unknown  inner  sense  that  hailed  it 
from  within  me,  that  I  could  almost  say  that  now  'twas  here  and 
now  'twas  there,  and  locate  it  with  trembling  finger,  altho' 
nothing  in  truth,  moved  or  stirred.  I  fancied  that  I  heard  a 
demoniacal  cry  as  if  breathing  a  wail  from  the  furnace  of  hell. 
I  experienced  a  bit  of  apprehension  which  harbingered  the  com- 
ing of  grim  events  and  a  sense  of  impending  harm  set  my  heart 
beating  nervously. 

Graveyard  silence  now  fell  upon  the  house  and  I  saw  quite 
distinctly  a  figure  moving  thru  the  mellow  light,  a  tall,  slim, 
hooded,  spectral  thing  that  seemed  to  radiate  a  light  of  its  own. 
It  moved  steadily  round  the  table,  and  as  it  did  so,  a  wild,  hor- 
rible yell  filled  the  room,  the  cry  of  one  in  terrible  distress.  The 
luminous  outline  of  the  slowly  moving  sprite  seemed  of  electrical 
origin  and  evidently  was  the  same  ghost  that  had  appeared  a 
little  time  before  in  a  haze  in  the  darkness  of  the  room.  I  was 
confident  of  this  and  that  the  ghostly  orbs  had  apparently  been 
smeared  with  a  preparation  of  phosphorous  or  cryptogamus 
fungus.  A  lighted  candle  borne  high  above  its  shrouded  head 
diffused  barely  enough  light  to  make  the  figure  distinguishable, 
and  the  oil  burner  was  severely  dim.  I  thought  that  the  air  was 
charged  with  horrid  gas,  and  I  instantly  reeled  down  to  the 
carpet  in  an  ocean  of  darkness  and  coma. 

When  I  again  became  conscious,  I  found  myself  half  kneeling, 
half  lying  across  the  bed,  my  arms  stretched  out  in  front  of  me, 
my  face  buried  in  the  clothes.  Body  and  mind  were  alike 
numbed.  A  dreadful  terror  in  my  heart  was  the  only  sensation 
of  which  I  was  aware.  Slowly  sense  and  memory  returned,  and 
with  them  a  more  vivid  intensity  of  mental  anguish,  as  detail  by 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


185 


detail  I  recalled  the  weird  horror  of  the  night.  Had  it  really 
happened?  Was  the  thing  still  there?  Or  was  it  all  a  night- 
mare ?  It  was  some  minutes  before  I  dare  either  to  move  or  look 
up  and  then  fearfully  I  raised  my  head.  Before  me  stretched 
the  smooth,  white  coverlet  faintly  bright  with  yellow  sunshine. 
Weak  and  giddy  I  struggled  to  my  feet  and  steadying  myself 
against  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  clenched  fist  and  bursting  heart, 
forced  my  gaze  around  the  other  end.  My  breath  came  more 
freely,  and  I  turned  to  the  window.  The  sun  had  just  risen,  the 
golden  treetops  were  touched  with  light  faint  threads  of  mist 
which  hung  here  and  there  across  the  sky  and  the  twittering  of 
birds  sounded  clearly  thru  the  crisp  autumn  air. 

The  ticking  clock  hollowly  boomed  the  hour  of  seven  and  I 
almost  leaped  for  joy  so  highly  strung  were  my  nerves,  and  so 
appallingly  did  the  sudden  clangor  beat  upon  them.  I  sat  up 
upon  the  couch,  trembling  in  every  limb,  my  mind  divided 
between  thankfulness  and  horror.  For  a  long  interval  I  indulged 
in  gloomy  speculations  in  that  gloomy  house,  peopled  by  shad- 
ows and  the  smell  of  sad  suggestions.  I  hastily  dressed,  injected 
the  usual  morning  eye-opener  of  morphine  and  at  once  sought 
the  public  square. 

Entering  a  saloon,  I  gulped  down  with  nerveless  fingers  a 
"gill  baby"  of  tailor-made  whiskey  following  this  up  by  a 
carafe  of  brandy.  To  the  bartender  there  and  the  sporadic  blue 
and  bulbous-nosed  ' 1  rummies, ' '  grog-shop  barnacles,  dry  farmers 
and  the  hoi  polloi,  consisting  of  aged  fossils  and  young  fungi,  I 
became  confidential,  and  related  my  recent  troubles.  A  lucid 
explanation  divested  the  dilemma  of  its  enigmatical  character, 
and  to  me  it  remained  no  longer  a  riddle. 

There  is  no  lock  but  a  golden  key  will  open  it. 

Had  it  not  been  otherwise  cleared  up  I  was  about  prepared 
to  resign  myself  to  the  belief  that  I  had  one  of  those  incompre- 
hensible nervous  shocks,  one  of  those  affections  of  the  brain 
which  dwarf  the  miracles  to  which  the  supernatural  owes  its 
power,  or  that  I  had  submitted  myself  to  the  influences  of  an 
imaginative  spell,  or  that  I  had  corns  on  my  brain  and  crooked 
pins  in  my  gourd,  or  that  I  must  have  taken  mushrooms  for 
dinner  or  undigested  cheese. 

I  had  heard  and  I  had  read  of  the  spirits  of  wicked  men 
forced  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  their  earthly  crimes  and  as  I  found 
out,  this  was  a  case  where  such  a  spirit  still  lingered  earth-bound, 
because  worried,  over  earthly  things. 

Now,  it  is  one  of  the  elementary  principles  of  practical  rea- 
soning that  when  the  impossible  has  been  eliminated,  the  resi- 
duum, however  improbable,  must  contain  the  truth.    In  the 


186 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


absence  of  data  we  must  abandon  the  analytic  or  scientific  mode 
of  reasoning,  and  must  approach  it  in  the  synthetic  fashion.  In 
a  word,  instead  of  taking  known  events  and  deducing  from  them 
what  has  occurred,  we  must  build  up  a  fanciful  explanation  if 
it  will  only  be  consistent  with  known  events.  But  we  cannot 
build  a  house  of  blocks  with  half  the  blocks  missing. 

The  fact  is  that  some  few  years  before  an  insane  man  had 
committed  a  strange  and  most  bitterly  heart-rending  tragedy  in 
the  slaughter  of  a  whole  household  in  this  very  room,  in  the  old 
tumble-down  inn  opposite  the  cemetery  and  simultaneously  re- 
moved himself  from  the  world  by  the  savage  mercy  of  the 
silent  knife. 

This  to  many  would  appear  a  grotesque  impossibility,  but  to 
a  psychologist  like  myself,  I  was  prepared  to  accept  as  an  abso- 
lute fact.  The  subsequent  phenomena  of  which  I  had  some  very 
acute  samples,  may  have  had  a  bearing  upon  the  sprites  which 
seemed  to  haunt  it,  and  were  in  this  way  a  sequence  to  this 
tragedy,  for  I  believe  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  are  the 
amphibia  of  this  life  and  the  next. 

This  was  the  key,  then,  to  the  mystery  of  this  strange  en- 
counter. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


ALMOST  INVOLUNTARY  MANSLAUGHTER 


"Let  us  have 

A  dram  of  poison,  some  soon-speeding  gear, 

As  will  disperse  itself  thru  all  the  veins 

That  the  life-weary  taker  may  fall  dead, 

And  that  the  trunk  may  he  discharged  of  breath 

As  violently  as  lusty  powder  fired 

Doth  hurry  from  the  fatal  cannon's  mouth" 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  climax  of  undiluted  gall  is  reached  when  a  morphine 
fiend  tries  to  hide  his  chronic  slavery  from  the  trained  eye  of 
the  scientist,  or  the  knowing  eye  of  ''the  rounder."  But  so  far 
as  the  general  public  is  concerned,  it  would  have  to  depend  for 
betrayal  upon  Dame  Rumor,  who  "unfolds  the  acts  commenced 
upon  this  ball  of  earth  and  upon  whose  tongue  continual  slanders 
ride,  and  who  stuffs  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports"  to  wise 
up  to  the  game. 

Notwithstanding  this,  one  may  become  careless,  and  this  care- 
lessness be  visited  by  some  dark  fatality. 

While  domiciled  in  Oklahoma  City,  I  had  the  reputation  of 
feeding  every  miscreant  and  beggar  who  could  crawl  or  hobble. 
In  fact,  I  was  always  a  friend  of  the  human  race,  because  I  have 
heard  the  harrowing  sighs  and  have  seen  the  trickling  tears  shed 
of  grief -stricken  humanity  so  often.  I  always  believed  in  the 
wholesome  doctrine  that  we  should  be  generous  towards  stran- 
gers, lest  we  entertain  an  angel  unawares.  All  my  life,  not  hav- 
ing been  ignorant  of  misfortune,  I  early  learned  to  succor  the 
unfortunate.  Hence  I  threw  lazar  alms  away  to  these  sans 
culottes  and  pitched  pennies  to  starving  mumpers  and  profes- 
sional proctors  on  the  street,  and  I  at  all  times  put  my  hand  in 
my  pocket  and  helped  alien  adventurers  as  a  direct  gift  from 
heaven.  The  reputation  I  had  thus  gained  made  me  a  target 
for  tramps,  and  this  fact  was  utilized  by  the  police  to  divert  the 
tide  of  human  distress  from  the  municipality.    Thus,  when  a 


188 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


derelict  drifted  into  port  with  a  tremendous  indictment  against 
fortune,  he  was  invariably  turned  over  to  me  for  relief.  An 
instance  in  point  wherein  a  roughneck  got  my  goatee,  I  disinter 
from  the  gray  vaults  of  memory. 

He  approached  me  with  that  sort  of  humility  which  dis- 
figures the  movements  of  a  man  down  on  his  luck.  I  responded 
sentimentally  to  this  down  and  outer  and  put  him  on  his  feet. 
I  found  that  he  was  not,  as  is  frequently  the  case,  inoculated 
with  the  virus  of  the  marble-hearted  fiend  of  ingratitude,  nor 
was  he  a  low-down  lowlander ;  for  in  return  for  my  sentimental 
ministrations,  he  did  some  menial  work  about  my  legal  sanctum, 
and  this  association  brought  us  together  in  mutual  fellowship. 
In  such  intercourse,  he  became  acquainted  with  the  mode  of  ad- 
ministration of  morphine  by  the  steel  needle,  and  he  knew  where 
I  cached  the  outfit.  He  was  therefore  placed  in  a  position  to 
gratify  any  vagrant  caprice  or  psychological  predilection  as  to 
the  effect  of  a  "shot,"  and  was  free  to  experiment  with  the 
virtues  of  transcendental  medicine. 

He  did  not  overlook  any  bets. 

To  my  unutterable  horror  as  I  entered  my  office,  I  found 
the  pilgrim,  like  Homer,  nodding  his  head  off  in  an  office  chair. 
His  visage  reflected  the  blanchness  of  the  camelia  and  there  were 
other  unmistakable  signs  of  recent  traffic  in  morphine. 

I  was  rigid  with  fearful  astonishment,  for  he  was  steeped  in 
a  morphine  trance.  An  ashen  pallor  had  crept  to  his  temples, 
pallida  mors  was  written  on  his  brow,  and  his  hands  were  as 
cold  as  a  snowball.  I  was  conscious  of  a  sound,  suppressed,  but 
constantly  repeated — the  gasping,  stertorous  breathing  of  one 
who  labored  to  swallow  sobs,  denoting  spasmodic  action  of  the 
muscles  of  the  throat.  I  felt  his  forehead  and  his  pulse :  the  one 
was  moist,  the  other  feeble,  and  these  symptoms  I  knew  were  in 
accord  with  the  therapeutics  of  the  case,  a  case  of  morphine 
poisoning. 

I  immediately  slapped  and  kicked  him  into  wakefulness  and 
I  got  a  strangle  hold  on  him.  Then  I  anchored  him  on  his  pins 
and  started  him  bon  gre  mal  gre,  on  a  tramp  to  the  jungles. 
Thru  the  bulrushes,  across  plowed  land  and  ripened  grain,  in 
forsaken  lanes  and  green  meadows,  among  nettles  and  tangling 
vines  on  the  way,  in  fields  of  stubble,  up  and  down  gullies,  in 
and  out  of  ravines,  thru  an  inextricable  labyrinth  of  lanes  and 
cross-ways  and  thru  strands  of  barb  wire,  over  hill  and  dale, 
skipping  mud  puddles  and  jumping  bogs,  I  made  him  hit  the 
high  places  by  describing  peripheries  and  walking  the  chalk 
line  in  endless  peregrinations  with  a  hayfoot  and  strawfoot  see- 
saw, until  the  physiological  effects  wore  off.    In  these  calis- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


189 


thenic  exercises,  he  knocked  his  head  against  fence  posts,  plunged 
into  kennels,  turned  into  blind  lanes,  rushed  thru  different  mean- 
ders and  frequently  fell  to  the  ground  in  stupors  of  overpower- 
ing drowsiness.  I  steered  him  to  a  pump  and  arranged  his  head 
so  that  the  flow  of  that  fine  natural  liquor — God's  best  and 
greatest  gift  to  man,  water — would  descend  upon  his  occiput  and 
this  was  his  diaphoretic.  By  reason  of  these  attentions  a  par- 
tial revival  of  normal  forces  was  attained;  yet  I  trembled  with 
the  ague  of  both  eagerness  and  fear,  for  I  knew  that  if  he  suc- 
cumbed to  drowsiness  following  upon  the  least  scruple  of  an 
overdose,  the  toxic  effects  would  ensue  producing  coma  and 
death,  and  I  resolved  to  be  "in  at  the  death." 

For  fully  six  hours  I  drudged  like  a  soldier  ant  and  bore  this 
cross  of  continuous  activity.  Finally  I  ventured  a  home  thrust 
and  bagged  him  for  town  thru  a  back  door,  and  in  a  restaurant 
there,  I  shot  into  his  dopy  maw  a  few  tankards  of  the  dark. 

While  still  the  golden  ball  glimmered  in  the  west,  I  had  him 
hog-tied  to  a  chair  in  my  office,  and  to  his  pallid  brow  I  glued  a 
moist  bandage. 

The  Chinese  have  a  mode  of  punishment  which  consists  sim- 
ply in  keeping  the  subject  of  it  awake  by  the  constant  teasing  of 
a  succession  of  individuals  employed  for  the  purpose.  This  was 
the  sentence  as  a  coup  de  grace,  imposed  by  me  upon  this  hewer 
of  wood  and  this  drawer  of  water.  It  was  the  penance  meted 
out  to  and  suffered  by  this  wanton  empiricist. 

Thruout  the  gloom  of  the  subterrene  night,  I  maintained  a 
lonely  and  melancholy  vigil  over  him,  teasing  him  into  wakeful- 
ness, regardless  of  the  fact  that  my  own  circulation  was  suffused 
with  a  sufficiency  of  the  Aqua  T  of  ana  to  convert  an  entire  hos- 
pital to  the  realms  of  Morpheus.  Like  the  watchful  minutes  to 
the  hour,  still  and  anon  cheered  up  the  heavy  time.  By  the 
means  thus  employed,  I  killed  my  patient  with  kindness  and 
made  the  hill  at  last. 

Had  this  episode  eventuated  in  death,  I  would  have  become 
the  central  figure  in  an  explosion  of  more  or  less  publicity,  and 
in  a  legal  prosecution,  unless  I  could  show  as  matter  of  defense, 
the  earmarks  of  the  grandeur  of  pagan  philosophy,  I  might  have 
faced  a  jury  and  become  the  pivot  of  its  verdict  on  a  charge  of 
criminal  negligence,  if  not  the  graver  charge  of  involuntary  man- 
slaughter. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


OUTSIDE  THE  PENITENTIARY  WALLS 


Hamlet:  "Denmark's  a  prison." 

Rosencrantz :    "Then  is  the  world  one." 

— Hamlet. 

Wallula  is  a  dub  sage-brush  two  by  four  wide  place  in  the 
road,  in  South-eastern  Washington,  at  the  junction  of  the  Ore- 
gon Railway  &  Navigation  Company's  line  with  the  Northern 
Pacific  Railway.  Upon  its  fringes  are  shifting  sand  dunes, 
smothers  of  alkali  dust  among  the  soap  weed,  armless  cacti,  evil 
choya  and  stinking  alkali. 

About  the  twilight  hour  on  a  summer  evening,  I  boarded  a 
freight  train  here  loaded  with  dressed  lumber,  and  was  helped 
to  a  comfortable  position  upon  its  bosom  by  the  village  elbow 
of  the  law,  who  cautioned  me  to  tell  the  '  'shack"  to  put  me  off 
at  Walla  Walla.  A  slow  freight  thru  this  country  is  a  slow 
freight  without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  as  it  stops  at  every  cross 
road  on  the  line.  The  route  traverses  an  exceedingly  sabulous 
territory  close  to  the  Snake  and  other  streams,  and  in  high  winds 
the  sand  is  scattered  like  winter's  withered  leaves.  During  the 
jolting  trip  it  filled  my  ears  and  eyes  and  cervix  gaiters  and 
finally  blew  off  my  billycock.  Fortunately  the  sand  and  the  jar 
of  the  train  prevented  me  from  succumbing  to  the  encroach- 
ments of  sleep,  the  soothing  spell  of  which  I  felt  imprisoning  my 
senses  at  every  jolt,  and  this  is  the  reason  that  I  survive  to  re- 
late this  tale ;  for  when  I  clambered  atop  the  lumbering  rattler, 
my  whole  system  was  electrified  by  the  zest  of  both  morphine  and 
laughing  water. 

Little  yellow  stars  were  straying  across  the  fields  of  heaven, 
and  the  town  minister  of  TIME  was  tolling  midnight,  as  I 
alighted  from  the  freight  at  Walla  Walla.  Helpless  from  the 
effects  of  spine-tingling,  soul-inspiring  nose  paint,  I  knew  not 
where  to  find  a  kipping  place,  and  must  have  aimlessly  wandered 
until  the  soft  dominion  of  sleep  spread  o'er  my  limbs.    When  I 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


191 


awoke,  it  was  with  a  sudden  intake  of  breath  and  a  contraction  of 
the  muscles,  the  surroundings  resplendent  in  the  sun,  the  morn 
in  russet  mantle  clad.  Steeped  in  swinish  sleep,  I  had  slept  with 
the  untroubled  serenity  of  a  child. 

I  arose  with  the  disturbance  and  sense  of  unreality  of  a 
dream,  and  as  fresh  as  a  bridegroom.  There  was  the  clear  breath 
of  flowers,  and  the  warm  wine  of  the  sunshine  set  my  blood 
throbbing  deep  and  swift  to  a  new  sense  of  love  and  pleasure, 
as  I  stood  up  spell-bound  on  the  dewy  grass.  The  sweet  incense 
of  the  spring  was  drawn  from  the  warm  budding  earth,  flowers 
glittered,  the  sun  shone  and  the  sky  was  blue,  as  I,  the  intruder, 
stood  silent  and  surprised  before  a  grotesque  picture. 

Before  me  arose  a  high  stone  wall  stretching  to  right  and  left. 
Towers  that  looked  like  those  of  feudal  days,  reared  at  either 
end.  Armed  guards  paced  along  its  top,  walking  beats  to  and 
fro.  As  I  backed  away  from'  the  wall,  a  huge  smoke-stack  and 
roofs  appeared  to  the  view  above  the  rim  of  the  grim,  gray  wall. 
It  was  an  inexpressible  and  grisly  phantom,  and  in  a  flash  I 
visualized  the  topography. 

It  was  the  state  ' 'Stir." 

It  was  Sunday  morning  and  early  morning  mass  was  being 
celebrated  within  the  prison  walls,  for  I  clearly  heard  the  man 
with  the  black  cassock  chanting  the  Miserere  and  likewise  heard 
the  responses  Te  Deum  Laudamus,  Gloria  tibi  Domine,  Pax  vobis- 
cum  et  nobis  da  mihi  domine  reverendissime  miser icordiam  ves- 
tram.  Finally  I  heard  the  last  faint  peal  of  a  bell,  which  rang 
sadly  out  and  died.    It  was  the  Angelus. 

To  a  dope  fiend  and  drunkard  like  myself,  who  did  not  be- 
lieve in  being  honest  and  in  forgiving  my  enemies  as  the  Bible 
teaches,  and  whose  days  went  by  swifter  than  a  shuttle  and  spent 
without  hope,  these  exercises  struck  solemnity  to  my  soul. 

I  moved  in  a  straight  line  in  an  opposite  direction  from  the 
one  in  which  I  had  gone  before,  with  my  back  to  Walla  Walla, 
my  face  to  the  penitentiary  wall.  I  had  not  moved  far  when  I 
heard  a  guard  from  the  top  of  the  wall  utter  the  command :  Halt! 
when  I  stopped  and  threw  up  my  hands  in  abject  surrender. 
The  guards  from  both  towers  now  consulted  together  for  an  in- 
stant, and  one  of  them  hallooed  in  the  crisp  morning  air  "All 
right,"  as  they  both  waved  me  away  like  the  fairy  of  a  panto- 
mime. Yet  in  my  mind  I  ' '  put  myself  in  his  place " ;  I  thought 
that  if  I  had  actually  been  a  convict  in  that  prison,  and  in  escap- 
ing from  it  had  reached  the  outside  only  to  be  recaptured — what 
a  cruel  disillusionment !  The  imagination  may  picture  a  man 
who  has  been  in  Hell,  and  thinks  that  he  has  made  good  his  es- 
cape from  that  abode  of  lost  souls,  and  who,  at  the  last  portal, 


192 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  outer  gate,  is  plucked  back  and  damned  to  all  eternity.  Is 
there  any  awakening  so  rude  in  all  the  world  ?  Truly,  'tis  a  pic- 
ture no  artist  can  paint ! 

Tingling  memories  arise  when  I  think  of  what  might  have 
happened  to  me,  if,  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night  these  guards 
had  heard  me  snoring  in  maudlin  slumber — a  slumber  broken  by 
gurgling  sobs,  due  to  the  absorption  of  narcotism  and  bubble 
water,  for  I  do  not  suppose  that  when  a  vicious  man  reasons  with 
himself  upon  his  vices,  he  is  one  out  of  five  hundred  times  af- 
fected by  the  dangers  that  he  runs  thru  his  brutish  physical  in- 
sensibility. I  have  not  the  mood  to  ponder  over  possibilities, 
but  if  the  moral  has  grown  with  the  unfolding  of  the  tale  itself, 
I  shall  consider  myself  paid  in  full. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


A  HOLD-UP  OF  TOWN  SLOPS 


"Could  great  men  thunder  as  Jove  himself  does, 
Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet.   For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 
Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder;  nothing  but  thunder. 
Merciful  heavens !   Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Splitst  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak  than  the  soft  myrtle. 
But  man,  proud  man,  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Most  conscious  of  what  he's  most  assured; 
His  glassy  eyes  like  an  angry  ape 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep;  which,  with  our  spleens, 
Would  half  themselves  laugh  mortal." 

— Measure  For  Measure. 

Shortly  after  the  occurrence  of  the  sensational  exploits  in  the 
career  of  Pat  Crowe,  when  the  kidnapper  had  the  combined  police 
forces  of  Omaha,  South  Omaha  and  Council  Bluffs  non-plussed, 
I  landed  in  the  droning  town  of  Neola,  Iowa.  It  was  on  a  crisp, 
tingling  January  morning  when  the  North  was  enveloped  fold 
on  fold  in  a  ghostly  stillness  of  newly  fallen  snow.  Crowe  had 
just  been  acquitted  of  the  charges  of  kidnapping,  assault  to  mur- 
der and  robbery,  and  the  police  to  the  verge  of  righteous  indigna- 
tion seemed  outpointed  at  every  turn,  and,  pending  his  tempor- 
ary absence  in  unknown  parts,  these  constabularies  were  in  a 
flutter  of  doubt  relative  to  new  sensations.  The  efforts  of  the 
town  bulls  had  become  so  abortive  in  landing  the  bad  actor,  that 
the  bulls  were  apathetic,  and  this  apathy  was  born  of  actual  fear 
of  the  man. 

Crowe's  absence  from  the  scene  of  his  recent  escapades  en- 
gendered suspicious  speculations  in  the  minds  of  the  police,  and 
the  news  of  any  fresh  sensations  in  which  he  figured  was  hailed 
with  no  little  surprise  and  somewhat  less  activity  in  police  cir- 
cles. In  fact,  it  became  a  matter  of  current  gossip  that  the  con- 
stabularies of  these  towns  were  infinitely  inefficient,  and  grave 
whispers  went  the  rounds  that  certain  official  heads  must  fall 
in  the  basket.    Individual  members  of  these  forces  became  visibly 


194 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


incensed  about  outrageous  taunts  of  official  inertia,  and  it  is  re- 
corded that  many  pates  were  sapped  by  the  policeman's  "billy" 
when  impertinent  inquiries  were  made  in  a  censorious  way  by 
wags  bent  on  impaling  the  force  on  the  pivot  of  public  ridicule. 
The  lynx-eyed  hawkshaws  of  the  law  thruout  the  surrounding 
country  were  alike  agitated,  expecting  at  any  moment  intelli- 
gence of  the  commission  of  fresh  depredations  within  their  own 
bailiwicks  by  Black  Bart's  logical  successor.  And  this  latter 
phase  was  given  added  accentuation  perforce  of  the  fact  that 
his  whereabouts  were  shrouded  in  perplexing  mystery. 

This,  by  way  of  explanation,  was  the  situation  of  affairs 
upon  my  arrival  in  Neola,  situated  twenty  miles  East  of  Council 
Bluffs.  Speaking  of  dress,  I  may  state  that  I  was  habited  in  a 
presentable  front,  my  "benny"  trailing  to  the  dust,  and  I  was 
clean  shaven  and  withal,  dolled  up  so  as  to  disarm  the  town  gos- 
sips of  suspicion,  villagers  who  idle  about  and  who  are  ever  ready 
to  attribute  evil  to  a  stranger  within  the  gates  of  their  dub  town. 
I  knew  that  I  was  free  from  guile,  and  that  the  clothes  lines  and 
hen  roosts  of  the  community  were  safe  so  far  as  I  was  concerned 
and  I  humored  myself  by  ruminating  "Honi  soit  qui  mat  y 
pense,  and  with  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  I  was  Sans  Peur  et  sans 
reproche. 

Notwithstanding  my  arrogance  I  had  less  than  a  dollar  to 
throw  to  the  birds,  and  this  was  the  last  button  on  Gabe's  coat. 
I  knew  that  if  this  fact  were  known  to  the  uncultivated  loungers 
of  Neola,  it  might  presage  a  fall,  so  I  determined,  as  I  touched 
in  my  movements  the  hems  of  the  garments  of  these  rude  and 
verdant  boobs. 

My  purse  had  become  depleted  to  the  bagatelle  referred  to 
as  a  result  of  high  carnival  in  Omaha  some  days  previous  in 
feverish  wagers  on  the  round  table  with  the  green  cloth,  hence 
it  became  expedient  for  me  in  order  to  forestall  prosecution  for 
violation  of  the  state  gambling  laws  to  put  on  the  snowshoes  and 
trekk  the  veldt  to  unforbidden  strands,  and  having  determined 
to  reach  the  city  of  which  Hell  itself  is  merely  a  pocket  edition, 
the  "shack"  put  me  off  at  Neola. 

I  soon  found  out  that  I  would  be  bottled  up  here  for  the 
day,  and  that  I  could  ride  the  passenger  at  midnight.  So,  as 
the  hours  passed,  I  grew  restless  under  the  brazen  gaze  and  the 
grave  whisperings  of  the  village  home  guards,  who  ogled  me  like 
a  lot  of  gaping  oafs.  Sardonic  grimaces  focussed  me  at  every 
turn.  Like  a  comet  I  was  wondered  at  by  the  rag-tag  dunder- 
heads. I  was  scutinized  with  the  undisguised  curiosity  that 
town  boobs  do  not  scruple  to  express.  I  was  in  an  uncertain 
spotlight.    Could  I  be  disillusionized?    Was  it  hero  worship? 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


195 


Did  this  plain  folk  admire  my  peacock  hauteur  as  I  hit  the  high 
places?  Was  this  a  nightmare  following  upon  a  coup  of  hard 
luck  and  saturnalian  orgies  with  "hot-box"  and  "shot"  of  mor- 
phine thrown  in,  and  the  popular  frown  meant  wholesome  idola- 
try? 

I  am  inclined  to  the  mood  of  Othello,  and  I  will  exclaim  with 
him :  "  I  '11  never  believe  it, ' '  altho '  * '  Welcome  to  our  city ' '  were 
written  across  the  heavens.  Let  Apella,  the  circumcized  Jew  be- 
lieve it ;  I  could  not,  for  I  sensed  some  smouldering  hostility  and 
the  very  air  tingled  with  supressed  hate.  Therefore,  believing 
that  their  smiles  meant  hypocrisy,  I  called  up  my  nerve  and  pre- 
pared myself  for  any  tableau. 

In  the  keen  winter  twilight  I  saw  an  extra  policeman  sworn 
in  to  augment  the  force.  In  stature  he  was  petit,  altho '  in  frame 
he  seemed  lithe  and  supple  enough,  but  what  there  was  lacking 
in  him  in  leonine  prodigality,  he  more  than  assayed  one  hundred 
per  cent  in  penetrating  scrutiny.  Particularly  did  he  have  lynx- 
eyed  "lamps"  and  as  I  passed  him  on  my  way  to  the  Rock  Island 
depot,  he  turned  on  me  the  evil  eye  in  a  skull  and  cross  bones 
stolidity  that  would  have  had  a  tendency  to  freeze  the  marrow. 
To  be  more  expressive,  he  had  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  a  pene- 
trating power  which  could  make  distance  near.  I  gave  him  the 
"dead  face,"  as  I  inwardly  chuckled  at  his  exhibition  of  affec- 
tation and  his  larceny  of  Jovian  thunder.  This  thunder  was 
spent  upon  me,  and  to  a  rounder,  like  your  orator,  it  was  sheer 
superficiality  and  pretense. 

Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

I  was  in  the  mood  to  tear  away  to  some  seclusion  and  after- 
wards walked  over  to  the  Rock  Island  depot  and  sat  down  upon 
a  bench  there,  and  heaving  a  heavy  sigh  I  lasped  into  insensibil- 
ity and  then  into  a  profund  slumber. 

When  I  awoke  I  was  still  the  sole  occupant  of  the  place  and 
it  was  about  midnight  by  the  clock.  I  was  alone,  and  as  the  Rus- 
sian proverb  says :   ' '  Heaven  so  high  and  the  Czar  afar  off. ' ' 

The  sensation  which  is  the  subject  of  this  chapter  soon  fol- 
lowed when  five  persons,  bristling  like  hedgehogs,  entered  the 
waiting  room,  all  of  them  being  heavily  muffled  for  winter. 
Among  them  I  noticed  the  city  marshal  with  glittering  star.  The 
others  were  home  guards,  obtuse  boneheads,  unlicked  and  unbap- 
tized.  They  soon  assembled  in  the  agent's  office  and  engaged 
in  animated  town  bunk.  I  overheard  how  Zeke  Simpkins  lost  a 
spotted  calf;  what  pumpkins  were  worth  at  Skookum  Center; 
that  Si  Henderson  got  his  hoof  caught  in  a  wolf  trap  and  that 
the  schoolmarm  was  going  to  marry  Bill  Whiskers,  by  Crackey ! 
Thru  all  of  this  monotonous  parley  I  essayed  to  look  the  part  of 


196 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


one  unconcerned,  as  tho'  surrounded  by  some  insulated  atmos- 
phere. I  simulated  sleep,  for  I  considered  that  the  best  time  to 
adopt  a  disguise  is  before  it  is  needed. 

As  the  party  broke  ranks,  I  heard  the  voice  of  one  above  the 
others  who  said  distinctly:  "Who  is  that  geezer  out  there  in 
the  waiting  room?  It  was  then  that  one  of  the  provincial  gos- 
sips gave  the  whole  snap  away  by  saying  in  a  half -serious,  half- 
jocular  vein : 

"That's  Jesse  James!" 

With  the  long  "benny"  that  concealed  my  figure  and  a 
slouch  hat  hiding  my  features,  permitting  my  eyes  only  to  glisten 
in  the  depths,  I  most  certainly  had  an  inexpressibly  mysterious 
and  brigand-like  aspect. 

Some  sage  has  said  that  ' '  Forbearance  ceases  to  be  a  virtue, ' ' 
and  at  this  sally,  I  was  thoroly  infuriated.  My  gorge,  whatever 
that  is,  rose.  However,  I  had  not  long  to  wait  for  sensations,  as 
the  quintet  entered  in  battle  array.  The  sizzerbill  with  the  lan- 
tern was  the  identical  one  who  had  googooed  me  earlier  in  the 
evening  with  his  piercing  "lamps."  The  devil  was  dancing  in 
them  sure  enough.  He  at  once  sauntered  up  to  me  where  I  was 
seated  upon  a  bench,  and  with  an  air  of  importance  some  people 
assume  when  clad  with  police  authority  and  with  odds  in  their 
favor,  in  organ  tones  of  majestic  authority,  tempered  with  some 
acidity,  said : 

"Say,  bo,  the  marshal  will  furnish  you  a  bed." 

To  be  serious,  I  hadn't  asked  for  accommodations  of  this 
character  and  in  my  humble  judgment  no  self-respecting  man 
would  apply  to  any  such  an  almoner  when  in  humble  straits,  for 
it  is  usually  the  rule,  with  no  exceptions,  that  one  who  asks  for 
bread,  is  handed  a  stone  by  these  temperamental  janissaries.  Yet 
I  did  not  so  much  dislike  the  matter  as  the  manner  of  his  speech. 
He  really  spoke  with  the  rage  of  old  Alcides.  I  got  busy  at  once, 
and  as  I  reached  into  an  inside  pocket,  I  fished  out  several  jit- 
neys and  advanced  to  the  ticket  window  and  brought  my  fist 
down  with  a  terrific  whack,  at  the  same  time  demanding  a  ticket 
to  Minden  Junction.  This  station  was  but  a  few  miles  away, 
but  it  was  a  junction  point,  and  better  facilities  were  there  af- 
forded to  get  across  the  country,  and  on  to  Chicago. 

With  stiff -starched  formality  the  agent  refused  to  sell  me  the 
paste  board. 

At  this  unexpected  turn  of  events,  my  rage  was  boundless. 
Instantly  the  spirit  of  hell  arose  within  me  and  raged.  I  was 
armed  with  audacity  from  head  to  foot,  and  cared  nothing  for 
God,  man  or  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself.  Had  it  been  pos- 
sible to  have  observed  my  face  at  this  instant,  I  believe  that  it 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


197 


would  have  reflected  an  engorgement  of  blood — purple  with 
rage  and  vexation. 

Clearly  it  was  up  to  me  to  start  the  fuse  and  as  will  be  pres- 
ently noted,  I  made  some  warm  weather  in  the  neighborhood 
even  in  January.  After  having  fixed  upon  him  the  most  baleful 
glare,  I  addressed  the  nectabanus  in  vindictive  defiance  in  this 
wise:  «  ! 

"I  do  not  know  who  you  are  and  furthermore,  I  do  not  give 

a  d  .    However,  as  you  may  be  interested  in  the  disclosure 

of  my  identity,  I  will  be  frank  in  saying  that  I  am  not  Jesse 
James  returned  from  his  vault  of  clay  in  the  Missouri  bluffs, 
but  on  the  other  hand,  my  name  is  Pat  Crowe. 

Every  word  was  like  a  blistering  drop  of  vitriol  and  burned 
like  mines-  of  sulphur. 

It  was  a  studied,  hair-splitting  farrago  of  a  rejoinder  and  it 
clipped  the  dwarf's  wings.  Apprehension  sat  upon  his  brow; 
confusion  dwelt  in  his  craven  eye,  as  he  slowly  gesticulated : 

"You  held  the  cards!" 

At  this  instant  he  wilted  like  a  violet.  The  remainder  of  the 
party  affected  to  indulge  in  a  whimsical  smile,  but  the  effort  was 
feeble  and  perfunctory.  There  was  a  forced  note  in  their  merri- 
ment. They  could  not  have  been  more  surprised  if  a  spirit  had 
risen  from  the  floor  at  their  feet.  They  said  not  a  word.  Some- 
times people  understand  that  there  is  a  time  for  silence.  Really, 
it  was  a  humorous  situation — that  of  a  broken  gambler  and  mor- 
phine fiend  holding  up  the  village  slops  in  such  a  manner.  My 
own  sense  of  humor  is  very  acute,  and  it  is  a  miracle  that  in  spite 
of  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  I  did  not  commit  some  faux  pas 
by  laughing  out  aloud.  I  attribute  this  to  the  single  fact  that, 
blended  with  this  humor,  I  was  inoculated  with  terrible  projects 
of  vengeance,  the  main  one  being  to  reduce  the  dwarf  to  impal- 
pable powder. 

It  was  not  the  season  for  levity  by  either  party,  and  I  believed 
that  the  dwarf  and  his  confederates  were  conscious  of  being  up 
against  the  proposition  that  I  was  indeed  Pat  Crowe  suddenly 
returned  from  his  clandestine  rendezvous,  and  quite  prepared  to 
turn  any  trick  from  kidnapping  raw  bulls  to  looting  the  village 
bank. 

Realizing  myself  the  desperation  of  this  singular  contretemps, 
my  mind  became  active  on  the  moment,  and  then  was  seen  an 
incredibly  swift  flash  of  steel,  as  I  uttered  the  command.  ' '  Hold 
up  your  hands ! ' ' 

Ten  hands  instantly  shot  heavenward  as  I  covered  the  quintet 
of  dry  farmers  with  a  shining  "rod,"  and  admonished  them 


198 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


that  I  would  plaster  their  remains  against  the  wall  if  they  dared 
to  quiver  a  single  muscle. 

"You  are  the  timid  hares  of  whom  the  proverb  goes,  whose 
valor  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard."    I  exclaimed. 

The  familiar  rumble  of  a  train  was  now  heard  moving  over 
the  frosted  rails  of  the  C.  M.  &  St.  P.  Eailway  outside,  and  seiz- 
ing this  opportunity  for  escape,  I  slowly  backed  out  the  door, 
hurriedly  glued  myself  to  the  ' '  bumpers ' '  unseen  by  the  meddle- 
some ' '  shacks ' '  and  f  arewelled  the  town. 

On  the  following  morning  I  heard  the  familiar  shout  of  the 
newsboys  on  the  streets  of  Des  Moines :   ' 1  All  about  Pat  Crowe. ' ' 

It  must  be  remembered  that  any  news  of  Crowe's  work  at 
this  particular  time,  ran  like  a  train  of  lighted  gunpowder  thru 
the  country. 

The  paper  was  plastered  with  inflamed  scareheads  about  the 
celebrated  kidnapper  of  the  Cudahy  kid,  and  while  in  the  capital 
city  for  a  week  or  more  thereafter,  full  of  morphine  and  whisky, 
I  observed  no  activity  in  police  circles  to  get  him,  and  in  a  mom- 
ent of  conviviality,  knowing  that  the  law  was  on  my  side,  I  ac- 
tually interrogated  a  uniformed  officer  about  Crowe,  to  which 
he  replied:  "We  don't  want  him;  Pat  has  the  police  stopped 
forty  ways  from  the  jackpot." 

I  never  laugh  except  upon  good  grounds,  and  it  is  my  ' '  horse- 
back" opinion  that  I  am  entitled  to  utter  one  long  shrill-toned, 
discordant  and  dissonant  horse-laugh  that  would  drown  even 
that  shout  that  *  *  *  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Freighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  Old  Night,  after  having 
compelled  the  rustic  "bulls"  against  their  own  kidney  to  eat 
their  own  heehaw. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  MORPHINE  ANNIE 

(A  Burlesque) 
Passed  by  the  Censor 


"Many  days  shall  see  her, 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  day  to  crown  it. 
Would  I  had  known  no  more — hut  she  must  die; 
She  must;  the  saints  must  have  her;  yet  a  virgin,  \ 
A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn  her" 

— King  Henry  VIII. 

In  the  fashionable  cemetery  of  Rincon  Hill,  San  Francisco, 
in  a  retired  corner  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  where  the  sunbeams 
warm  the  crocuses  to  life  in  early  spring  and  kiss  the  daisies  in 
summer  when  they  nod  their  little  heads  above  the  greensward, 
stands  a  broken  marble  column  with  these  words  chiselled  at  its 
base :   ' 1  These  bones  shall  rise  again. ' ' 

It  is  the  tomb  of  Morphine  Annie,  of  that  city. 

The  poor  old  girl  had  used  the  stuff  for  many  years,  at  first 
tentatively  and  sparingly,  but  at  times  breaking  away  from  the 
horrible  coil  only  to  be  carried  by  the  current  of  temptation  upon 
the  broad  bosom  of  chronic  addiction.  She  paddled  her  own 
canoe  thru  difficulties  of  which  she  complained  not,  until  her 
moribund  strength  and  waning  powers  and  the  dry  rot  of  age 
in  her  blood  surrendered  to  nature's  disintegrating  forces,  and 
her  frail  body  was  found  at  last  in  the  clasp  of  eternal  slumber. 

The  pruning  knife  of  time  cut  her  down,  and  death,  the  blind 
cave  of  eternal  night,  touched  the  button  that  fashioned  her  for 
the  marble  slab  and  the  house  with  the  narrow  gate. 

The  tenderness  of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief, 
and  making  a  groan  of  her  last  breath,  she  now  sings  in  heaven 
and  shines  as  an  etherealized  essence  in  the  angelic  band.  She 
belongs  to  the  stars. 

Throughout  her  life  she  religiously  denied  the  doctrine  of 


200 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


spiritual  freedom  and  the  life  of  the  soul — that  the  soul  was 
the  proper  principle  of  life  and  development  in  the  body — and 
this  is  why  I  marvelled  upon  discovering  that  her  dying  request 
was  that  a  bottle  of  morphine  be  cached  in  her  coffin  to  be  handy 
on  the  journey  unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  light  in  the  mel- 
ancholy flood  over  the  Stygian  river. 

Morphine  Annie,  like  the  average  mortal,  had  her  peculiar- 
ities, her  imperfections,  her  frailties.  She  did  not  profess  to  be 
a  rubricated  saint  ;  conversely,  she  maintained  that  she  was  a 
sinner.  But  her  disposition  was  radically  noble  and  generous, 
clouded  only  by  superficial  foibles.  She  was  always  willing  to 
share  the  sorrows,  troubles  and  cares  of  another,  and  in  a  frenzy 
of  pity  would  part  with  the  last  wrap  to  clothe  the  naked  and 
share  her  humble  fare  with  the  needy  and  destitute.  "When 
sickness  stalked  with  implacable  severity  into  the  ranks  of  her 
sex,  she  became  insistently  solicitous,  and  dedicated  her  time 
and  her  sorrows  in  ministrations  with  a  velvet  hand  to  bring  back 
a  healthy  glow  to  the  fevered  cheek.  No  hard  luck  story  of  the 
outcast  appealed  to  her  in  vain  if  she  possessed  the  wherewithal 
to  gratify  the  prayers  of  the  distressed  from  her  meagre  ex- 
chequer. 

Her  life  was  in  harmony  with  nature.  In  fact,  she  was  the 
incarnation  of  all  the  virtues.  She  abounded  with  pleasant 
faults,  and  finally  died  with  her  face  toward  the  setting  sun. 

She  did  not  make  use  of  her  salt  hours  by  a  course  of  rigor- 
ous economy,  and  this  is  the  salient  reason  why  she  was  incapable 
of  putting  by  any  treasure  for  chimney-corner  days,  and  that 
blest  retirement,  the  friend  to  man's  decline,  when  she  would  be- 
come too  old  to  cheat  the  winter  any  more. 

She  was  an  almoner  to  human  woe  in  general;  she  was  the 
reliever  of  a  world  of  restless  cares ;  she  was  an  all  round  ' '  good 
fellow,"  the  "pal"  of  the  grief -stricken,  the  comforter  of  the 
aching  heart.    Like  old  King  Cole,  she  was  a  good  old  soul. 

In  her  makeup  the  milk  of  human  kindness  never  clabbered. 

She  gave  no  chalk  in  return  for  cheese. 

Her  unpretentious  cottage  was  a  "hop  joint"  for  hopheads, 
dopeheads,  snowbirds  and  fiends  of  high  and  low  degree,  and  no 
fiend  who  entered  this  Mecca  of  hopology  belabored  by  the 
agonies  or  suffering  the  tortures  of  lustful  nerves,  was  ever 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


201 


turned  away  empty  handed.  She  believed  that  one  touch  of  na- 
ture makes  the  whole  world  kin.  She  took  these  fiends  under 
her  wing  and  doped  out  the  happy  dust  with  no  niggardly  eco- 
nomy. 

There  was  no  winter  in  her  bounty ;  it  was  autumn  time  that 
grew  the  more  by  reaping. 

Her  good  deeds  will  survive  the  winnow  of  time. 

Like  Marina,  she  never  killed  a  mouse  nor  hurt  a  fly,  nor 
trod  upon  a  worm.  In  morality  she  was  as  stainless  as  the  lily, 
as  chaste  as  a  star.  In  truth,  she  was  chaste  and  immaculate  in 
every  thought. 

She  hated  the  police  with  undying  animosity,  and  her  hatred 
was  so  violent  and  her  hostility  so  implacable,  that  it  led  some- 
times to  active  opposition  to  these  cohorts  of  the  law. 

When  the  intelligence  gained  currency  that  Morphine  Annie 
was  no  more,  there  was  a  general  flutter  in  the  little  settlement 
in  Frisco  where  she  had  lived  latterly  the  life  of  an  anchorite, 
and  there  was  general  sadness  in  the  ranks  of  the  down  and  out 
clubs  of  both  sexes.  The  fleusies  of  the  neighborhood  and  mem- 
bers of  the  dope  Sorosis  laid  the  body  out  in  a  manner  becoming 
the  station  of  the  deceased,  with  a  profusion  of  chapelles  ardente 
set  about  the  corpse. 

On  sundry  occasions  she  herself  had  placed  the  copper  pen- 
nies upon  the  sockless  orbs  of  1  'stiffs,"  and  now  these  funereal 
weights  were  to  be  glued  to  her  own  downy  windows,  the  delicate 
office  being  performed  by  Workhouse  Nelly. 

A  real  old  fashioned  wake  was  held,  the  mourners  sitting  be- 
fore the  lighted  candles  by  the  coffin  throughout  the  watches  of 
the  night,  while  an  invisible  chorus  rendered  subdued  music,  like 
from  Orpheus'  lute. 

Before  final  interment  after  the  high  Roman  fashion  of  the 
mortal  remains  of  one  of  the  most  picturesque  characters  of  the 
Coast  city,  a  brief  service  was  conducted  at  the  cottage  of  the 
deceased  at  which  Colonel  Timothy  Hay,  a  lifelong  friend  of  the 
dead  woman,  assumed  the  role  of  Muezzin  after  having  tossed  off 
a  beaker  of  red  Burgundy  and  injected  a  hypodermic  "shot"  in 
his  left  arm,  indulged  in  an  eulogium  dwelling  upon  the  well- 
ordered  metaphysics  of  the  departed  and  the  paramount  virtues 
of  Morphine  Annie.    He  also  uttered  truths  from  the  Book  of 


202 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


Life,  being  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  the  living  God.  As  he  did  so, 
the  beads  ran  thru  his  fingers  as  Ave  and  Pater  Noster  were  told, 
and  he  strangled  his  language  in  his  tears.  Cocoaine  Mary  then 
recited  with  lascivious  metres  the  thrilling  lines  of  that  popular 
hop-joint  bathos  entitled  "My  blue-velvet  band." 

The  pall-bearers  at  the  funeral,  which  was  characterized  by 
barbaric  opulence  and  display  were  Vaseline  Lizzie,  Hasheesh 
Maggie,  Cocoaine  Mary,  Workhouse  Nelly,  Valerian  breath  Tilly, 
Copenhagen  Snuff  Minnie,  Mudface  Lil  and  Frivolous  Sal. 

She  was  buried  with  spices  and  fine  linen  and  in  plates  of 
pure  gold  in  the  very  odor  of  sanctity  and  respectability. 

In  a  neglected  locker  in  her  hop- joint  was  found  her  last  Will 
and  Testament.  An  examination  of  its  condition  showed  that 
it  had  accumulated  the  dust  of  time.  The  munificent  legacies 
are  these :  She  bequeathed  her  heart  to  San  Francisco,  her  body 
to  science  and  her  soul  to  hell.  To  Frivolous  Sal,  she  bequeathed 
the  sun  and  the  moon;  to  Workhouse  Nelly,  the  planets  Saturn 
and  Jupiter ;  to  Mudface  Lil,  the  free  ozone  of  the  meadows ;  to 
Copenhagen  Snuff  Minnie,  her  reputation;  to  Valerian  Breath 
Tillie,  her  ticket  to  Heaven  (this  was  not  transferable)  ;  to  Vase- 
line Lizzie,  her  hop-joint  pipe;  to  Hasheesh  Maggie,  her  snuff- 
box, and  to  Cocoaine  Mary,  her  hypodermic  syringe.  The  rest, 
residue  and  remainder  of  her  property,  real,  personal  and  mixed, 
wheresoever  situated,  she  bequeathed  to  her  executor,  Colonel 
Timothy  Hay. 

When  the  clouds  of  the  valley  have  assembled  to  hide  from 
earthly  eyes  all  that  is  mortal  of  one  who  has  fathomed  the  im- 
penetrable mystery  of  the  Great  Unknown,  the  world  gets  busy 
with  personal  vitriol  and  "men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass, 
their  virtues  we  write  in  water. ' '  In  simple  charity  it  ought  to 
be  the  reverse,  for  nil  nisi  bonum  de  mortuis.  The  case  of  Mor- 
phine Annie  was  no  exception  to  this  rule,  for  before  her  ashes 
grew  cold,  her  memory  was  upbraided  by  wagging  tongues. 

It  is  enough  that  flattery  cannot  soothe,  censure  cannot 
wound  and  ofttimes  abuse  is  flattery. 

Morphine  Annie  was  a  woman  after  all,  despite  the  fact  of 
her  utter  servility  to  the  malignant  substance  that  ostracised  her 
beyond  the  social  gates,  as  moral  conventionalities  considered 
such  indulgence  contra  bonos  mores. 

Moulded  by  nature  as  she  was,  her  acts  of  charity  and  self- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


203 


denial  in  the  vineyard  where  she  had  her  being,  will  outlive  like 
acts  of  those  whose  powers  to  ameliorate  human  woe  were  limit- 
less,— a  monument  more  durable  than  brass. 

In  her  instance  no  grave  evil  is  possible  to  record,  as  her  fail- 
ings even  leaned  to  the  side  of  righteousness,  notably  the  attri- 
butes of  virtue  and  truth.  In  fine,  her  life  was  gentle  and  the 
elements  so  mixed  in  her  that  nature  might  stand  out  and  say 
to  all  the  world  1  'This  was  a  woman,"  and  if  there  is  another 
world,  she  lives  in  bliss,  if  there  is  none,  she  made  the  best  of  this. 

Her  epitaph  in  glittering,  golden  characters  ought  to  express 
a  general  praise. 

May  the  yellows,  the  blues,  the  purple  violets  and  the  mari- 
golds hang  as  a  carpet  over  the  green  grave  marking  her  everlast- 
ing mansion ;  may  goodness  and  she  sleep  in  one  monument  and 
for  final  judgment,  let  us  leave  her  to  the  mercy  of  the  most 
High  and  Infinite,  with  whom  mercy  lies  at  the  right  hand,  and 
whose  rod  and  staff  may  comfort  her  along. 


NOTE. — Morphine  Annie  was  not  a  fictitious  character.  Her  real 
name  was  Annie  Forsythe  and  the  San  Francisco  papers  repeatedly 
referred  to  her  as  "The  Madonna  of  the  Slums,"  from  the  fact  that  she 
rescued  many  waifs  from  the  polluting  influences  thereof.  She  died 
July  22nd,  1905. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


A  MORPHINE  FIEND  IS  BELIEVED 


Duke:    "Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference  that 
holds  present  question  in  the  court?" 

Portia:    "I  am  informed  thoroly  of  the  cause.    Which  is 
the  merchant  here  and  which  the  Jew?" 

— Merchant  of  Venice. 

It  was  one  sultry  July  evening  that  I  first  met  the  Swede 
in  Billy,  the  Mug's  saloon  Seattle,  Wash,,  where,  after  many 
flagons  of  the  pale  brew  and  as  many  stoops  of  red-eye,  mutual 
confidences  were  exchanged.  In  fact,  we  had  imbibed  so  many 
rounds  of  drinks  that  our  garrulity  became  incoherent  and  our 
pins  unsteady.  It  was  a  confidential  drunk  and  the  more  foam- 
ing mugs  from  a  cool,  cellar  that  we  unloaded,  the  fraternal  bond 
became  so  strong  that  it  contributed  to  an  elasticity  of  mutual 
camaraderie. 

It  has  been  said  that  misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself,  and 
it  may  also  be  urged  that  the  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  like  pork 
barrel  politics,  makes  strange  bed  fellows. 

As  our  heads  began  to  swim  in  a  tide  of  delectable  convivial- 
ity, the  Scandinavian  son  invited  me  to  feast  with  him,  the  piece 
de  resistance  being  the  succulent  bivalve.  I  straightway  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  and  we  sought  a  cozy  corner  in  a  grill  a 
few  doors  from  the  Madhouse. 

The  wise  one  from  the  shores  of  snuff  and  sardines  thereupon 
ordered  two  plates  and  we  discussed  the  menu  with  epicurean 
relish.  When  we  had  finished  dining,  the  Swede  became  a  trifle 
cocky,  and  this  became  more  manifest  when  on  retiring  from  the 
cafe,  he  refused  to  liquidate  for  the  oysters  and  intimated  that 
your  humble  servant  was  the  paymaster.  Ordinarily  this  would 
have  been  according  to  the  ritual  of  ethics  observed  by  old  gam- 
blers like  myself,  but  at  this  time  I  was  ' 'broke."  To  create 
more  of  a  rough  house,  the  Swede  landed  a  heavy  on  the  waiter's 
sinciput.    In  addition  to  this,  he  grabbed  the  tablecloth,  bur- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


205 


dened  as  it  was  with  divers  dishes  and  swept  them  to  the  floor 
in  atoms,  and  then  lifting  the  dining  table  by  one  of  its  legs, 
shivered  it  into  toothpicks  against  the  wall.  This  whole  proceed- 
ing fell  upon  me  as  a  surprise  and  I  was  sunk  in  the  mere  stupid- 
ity of  wonder  and  the  idea  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  the 
Swede  was  a  nasty  chap  to  deal  with  when  he  had  his  topmasts 
lowered;  and  seeing  that  he  was  about  to  take  a  smash  at  my 
gourd,  I  ducked  and  countered  by  landing  a  jolt  on  his  left 
window,  leaving  it  somewhat  ecclymosed.  The  melee  developed 
into  a  free  for  all,  and  by  the  time  that  the  Black  Maria  arrived 
upon  the  scene  four  of  us  were  bleeding  from  wounds  and  lacera- 
tions. Without  ceremony  Alphonse  and  Gaston  were  gathered 
into  the  bowels  of  the  hurry-up,  and  finally  thrown  without  the 
usual  benefit  of  clergy,  into  the  town  bagne,  where  the  steam 
was  actually  turned  on  in  July.  This  phase  I  afterwards  found 
out  was  a  measure  designed  as  a  part  punishment  for  breaking 
into  jail. 

Well  knowing  before  hand  that  we  would  be  relieved  of  any 
superfluous  paraphernalia  or  personal  impedimenta,  I  attempted 
in  the  interval  of  arrest  and  search  to  cache  the  morphine  layout, 
but  by  reason  of  the  eternally  vigilant  eye  of  the  arresting  of- 
ficer it  was  discovered,  and  I  was  plunged  into  the  municipal 
hoosgow  minus  this  sine  qua  non.  But  a  feeble  ' '  shot ' '  had  been 
injected  into  me  earlier  in  the  evening  and  I  was  accustomed  at 
this  time  to  forty  grains  of  morphine  rations  per  day. 

Dope  fiends  hate  prison  walls,  and  their  impetuous  and  fiery 
nature  breaks  out  in  a  storm  of  rebellion. 

About  this  time  the  drug  began  to  make  its  demands  with 
dreadful  punctuality;  the  devil's  dance  of  twitching  limbs  and 
intolerable  restlessness  announced  its  approach.  I  was  being  de- 
voured by  the  hungry  flames  of  lustful  nerves.  My  forehead 
was  moist  and  my  pulse  feeble,  and  I  was  indulging  in  fits  of 
pandiculation.  I  was  fretting  with  crawling  skin  and  muscles 
spasmodically  twitching  for  the  calming  potion.  The  pupils 
of  my  eyes  were  in  a  midriatic  condition.  I  was  in  need  of  a 
"shot"  and  informed  the  turnkey.  This  twig  of  the  law  was 
sheathed  in  ice  but  for  cold  storage  it  would  be  odious  to  compare 
him  to  the  medicine  man  of  the  city  subway.  This  croaker  now 
made  his  rounds,  and  to  him  I  related  my  tale  of  abjectness,  and 
for  my  pains  he  gave  me  the  cemetery  stare  and  regarded  me  with 
a  cold  professional  air.  I  made  an  insistent  appeal  to  him  in 
the  strained  voice  of  the  morphine  fiend,  but  I  soon  found  that 
my  thunder  was  spent  upon  a  human  gargoyle. 

The  gift  of  innate  antipathy  is  heaven-sent.  It  is  certain 
that  if  one  may  love,  no  less  surely  one  may  hate  at  first  sight, 


206 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


and  as  our  eyes  met,  hatred  was  surely  born  in  his,  while  mine 
as  like  as  not,  told  thru  their  steady  stare  of  aversion  and  dis- 
like. He  was  a  sullen  fellow,  lean  and  tall,  with  black  crafty 
eyes  set  near  together,  a  thin  nose,  shaped  like  a  vulture's  beak, 
a  small  peaked  beard  and  black  hair  closely  cropped,  a  crafty, 
cunning,  cruel,  ungenerous  looking  skunk.  Being  in  the  shape 
of  a  man,  God  must  have  made  him,  therefore,  I  shall  have  to 
pass  him  for  a  man,  but  the  meanest  of  these  animals. 

I  am  an  acute  judge  of  character  and  of  human  nature.  Let 
me  measure  him  in  no  uncertain  tongue,  and  such  measurment 
will  apply  to  the  average  official  doctor  dowered  with  the  care 
of  those  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  become  inmates  of  eleem- 
osynary institutions  in  general.  He  seemed  to  be  the  very  pro- 
totype of  dull,  unfeeling,  barren,  short-armed  and  deformed 
ignorance.  In  physique,  he  was  an  attenuated,  puny,  sepulchral 
spectacle  and  from  my  visual  survey  of  his  all  together,  he  in  no 
wise  reflected  the  Hippocratean  disciple.  I  possess  the  heavenly 
spark  of  sizing  this  class  of  officials  up  in  their  true  sheep's 
clothes,  and  when  I  had  finally  classified  him  I  felt  like  plant- 
ing a  Palmer  uppercut  on  his  lantern  jaw.  How  he  ever  got  thru 
his  varsity  curriculum,  God  only  knows !  I  do  not  believe  that 
he  would  offer  a  glass  of  water  to  a  dying  man.  The  tartness  of 
his  face  would  sour  ripe  grapes.  I  hastily  concluded  that  fur- 
ther argument  with  one  of  his  compass  of  mind  was  a  lever  with- 
out a  fulcrum,  an  astronomer  without  a  telescope,  and  to  argue 
with  one  who  has  forsaken  his  reason  is  like  giving  medicine  to 
the  dead.  They  even  deny  the  probable  and  believe  in  the  im- 
possible. They  argue  against  a  dead  wall  of  stony  fact.  They 
have  a  way  de  nier  ce  qui  est  et  d'expliq  uer  ce  que  n'est  pas, 
and  the  more  I  think  of  them  the  better  I  love  rattlesnakes. 
Enough ! 

Failing  to  move  the  pill  box,  I  turned  my  wits  to  the  essen- 
tial crux  of  germinating  in  my  mind  some  hocus  pocus,  whereby 
I  could  prick  any  bubble  of  the  jabberwock  Swede,  as  my  teeth 
clenched  in  an  agony  of  tortured  nerves. 

I  juggled  with  the  facts  and  permitted  my  imagination  to  run 
riot  in  the  construction  of  some  fabricated  defense  that  would 
dovetail  in,  and  be  supported  by  the  events  that  immediately 
preceded  and  followed  our  arrest,  assuming  that  the  Swede's  in- 
sulated conscience  would  urge  him  to  falsify  ab  initio.  This  to 
me  was  a  postulate.  I  believed  that  he  was  a  rubber-tired  liar, 
and  in  all  truth  had  Ananias  and  Eli  Perkins  stopped  a  thousand 
ways.  No  exquisite  adjustment  could  be  made,  and  I  knew 
that  it  is  a  problem  beyond  the  capacities  of  the  human  mind 
to  falsify  a  transaction  that  looked  plausible  prima  facie,  and 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


207 


that  if  the  Swede  undertook  the  impossible  labor  of  denying 
everything  material  to  force  culpability  upon  him,  he  would  be 
lifting  his  own  hands  against  his  liberty,  that  he  would  be  saw- 
ing off  the  branch  that  he  was  sitting  on ;  if  given  enough  rope 
he  would  hang  himself,  if  given  a  glass  of  water  he  would  drown 
himself. 

And  the  suppression  of  the  truth  would  be  the  suggestion 
of  falsehood.  As  for  myself,  I  had  no  gold  to  plate  sin  with, 
or  shove  by  justice  by  offense's  gilded  hand,  even  assuming  my 
guilt,  hence  I  resolved  to  stick  to  the  truth — truth  so  clear  that 
it  would  glimmer  thru  a  blind  man's  eye.  I  reflected:  "Plato 
is  my  friend,  Socrates  is  my  friend,  but  truth,  the  gold  coin  of 
the  New  Jerusalem,  is  more  my  friend. ' '  After  having  resolved 
it  over,  I  finished  in  an  abiding  faith  that  the  strong  lance  of 
justice  could  not  pierce  it.  And  even  assuming  that  the  shallow 
wit  would  lie  in  his  throat,  that  he  would  perjure  himself  like 
Epaminondas,  I  thought  of  having  introduced  at  the  bearing  the 
simple  and  suggestive  test  of  respiration  on  him,  and  just  as 
soon  as  he  uttered  a  false  statement  an  increase  of  respiration 
would  be  discovered ;  and  had  this  investigation  been  one  portent- 
ous of  a  forfeit  of  my  life  or  affected  my  liberty  for  any  indefi- 
nite period,  I  would  have  forced  this  unerring  and  unequivocal 
test,  or  perhaps,  experimental  psychology,  viz,  the  wonderful 
subliminal  memory  that  records  every  face,  fact  and  happening 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  when  helped  by  another  wonderful 
subconscious  faculty,  the  association  of  ideas,  the  psychological 
factor  of  the  character  and  rapidity  of  the  mental  process  known 
as  this  association  of  ideas. 

The  awful  glut  of  vengeance  was  in  me,  was  gnawing  at  my 
soul. 

When  we  were  summoned  into  court  to  explain  in  this  court 
of  summary  conviction  where  insistence  upon  form  is  brushed 
aside  unceremoniously,  I  surprised  myself  by  telling  the  truth. 
I  offered  a  calm  appeal  to  reason,  and  subsided  like  a  lion  that 
had  just  made  a  full  meal  of  his  victim.  At  this  stage  of  the 
proceedings,  the  occasion  acquired  an  idyllic  flavor  by  a  voice 
from  the  mourner's  bench,  and  this  completed  the  thrill  of  my 
fanciful  nerves.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  uniformed  foreman  sua 
sponte. 

As  the  mighty  Ingersoll  in  one  of  the  greatest  appeals  for 
sympathy  in  a  homicide  case  closed  abruptly  when  a  juror  of 
the  panel  entirely  overcome  by  the  convincing  logice  of  the  in- 
vincible orator,  rose  in  court  and  virtually  announced  the  ver- 


208 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


diet  before  the  jury's  retirement,  so  I  sat  down  without  rocking 
the  boat. 

The  Swede  on  his  part  now  indulged  in  a  collection  of  idi- 
ocies— sentimental  rhapsodies — in  long-drawn  phrases  of  sac- 
charine tenuity,  and  finally  he  drowned  his  thoughts  in  a  flood 
of  empty  words.  He  swore  by  Woden  and  Thor  and  Freya,  and 
looked  like  a  papajex.  The  court  seeing  this,  did  not  permit 
him  to  get  to  the  end  of  his  latin,  and  consigned  him  to  six 
months  languishment  within  the  pale  shades  of  the  city  bilboes, 
and  the  morphine  fiend  who  stuck  to  the  truth,  was  released. 

So  far  as  my  own  case  is  concerned,  had  it  been  otherwise 
adjudged,  I  know  that  one  of  two  things  would  have  happened. 
Had  I  been  returned  to  this  or  any  other  calaboose  for  even  ten 
days,  and  the  morphine  suddenly  withdrawn,  I  would  have  either 
died  or  would  have  become  an  irreconcilable  lunatic. 

Falsification  is  the  inevitable  accompaniment  of  morphia, 
and  this  episode  is  related  more  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that 
altho'  a  chronic  liar  even  when  telling  the  truth  is  not  to  be  be- 
lieved, this  is  an  instance  where  a  dope  fiend  told  the  truth  and 
was  believed. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


TOO  MUCH  HYPODERMIC  NEEDLE 


"With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon    *    *    *    tvhose  effect 
Holds  such  an  enmity  with  the  blood  of  man, 
That  quick  as  quicksilver  it  courses  thru 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body, 
And  with  a  sudden  vigor  it  doth  posset 
And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood" 

— Hamlet. 

I  retain  a  memory  of  Salt  Lake  City  that  refers  neither  to 
the  Latter  Day  Saints,  polygamy  or  the  Danites. 

In  the  Mormon  Capital  I  unwittingly  flirted  with  the  under- 
taker ;  I  nearly  knocked  my  candle  out ;  I  danced  upon  the  edge 
of  my  own  sepulchre. 

On  the  occasion  I  had  punctured  a  vein  with  the  hypodermic 
needle. 

The  veins  of  the  body  lie  closer  to  the  skin  than  the  arteries, 
and  this  is  the  reason  that  they  are  more  liable  to  be  punctured 
in  the  ordinary  use  of  the  "gun"  by  a  dopehead.  The  sever- 
ance of  a  vein  is  accompanied  by  a  needle  pricking  sensation, 
a  flushing  of  the  face  and  the  cervical  region,  a  pounding  sensa- 
tion in  the  head  and  suspended  respiration.  In  that  of  an  artery, 
the  same  needle  pricking  confined  to  the  entire  body,  throbbing 
in  the  head,  difficult  respiration,  an  inordinate  flow  of  blood 
to  the  head,  together  with  a  sense  of  impending  dissolution.  In 
either  case  there  is  the  presence  of  syncope. 

All  of  the  former  I  felt  in  the  superlative  degree,  and  this 
is  how  it  happened. 

During  the  taciturn  watches  of  the  night,  I  awoke  from  the 
umbrage  of  a  ghoulish  nightmare  in  a  cheap  lodging  house  on 
Commercial  street,  the  Whitechapel,  the  Broomielaw,  the  Cour 
Des  Miracles,  the  Bowery,  the  Barbary  Coast  of  Salt  Lake.  In 
and  about  this  street  at  the  time  I  write,  was  domiciled  the  demi- 
monde, where  women  who  emerged  from  the  depths  flaunted 
their  libidinous  personalities,  lewdly  and  lasciviously  consorted 
with  the  opposite  sex,  sold  their  virtue,  their  bodies  and  their 


210 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


souls  for  "thirty  pieces  of  silver"  and  threw  out  other  baits  to 
tempt  the  exiguous  purses  of  the  greenhorns  from  the  cactus 
belts.  In  travels  abroad  I  have  seen  and  visited  many  red-light 
districts,  and  in  the  U.  S.  A.  I  have  seen  all  of  them,  and  here 
on  Commercial  street,  Salt  Lake  City,  is  the  first  and  only  place 
where  I  saw  scarlet  women  arrayed  in  transparent  flummery  or 
nearly  undraped,  who  chortled  exhortations  proclaiming  their 
unhallowed  avocations  from  the  tops  of  stairways  leading  to  their 
bagnios.  I  have  been  in  Pompeii,  and  among  the  ruins  there,  I 
clearly  distinguished  the  names  of  the  brothels  carved  on  the 
stone  over  the  doorways,  simple  announcements  of  the  scarlet 
merchandise  to  be  had  there ;  but  here  in  Salt  Lake  I  was  greeted 
for  the  first  time  with  signs  on  the  windows  of  these  second-story 
bagnios  which  read:  "Locks  picked  here,"  "Tickets  punched 
here."  Compared  with  all  of  the  restricted  districts  visited  by 
me,  these  seemed  utterly  abandoned.  In  fact,  they  were  as  in- 
temperate in  blood  as  Venus  or  those  pampered  animals  that 
rage  in  savage  sensuality.  In  select  chambers  of  these  bagnios 
in  an  atmosphere  of  subdued  lights  and  dilatory  music,  Nymphs 
du  pave  and  cabaret  chickens  arrayed  as  Eve  After  The  Fall, 
danced  the  shuttle-fox  trot  before  tango  lounge  lizards,  wall 
geccos  and  society  blades  lazily  lolling  on  tiger  skins  and  Per- 
sian mattresses.  Other  unwholesome  fads  even  over  the  rim  of 
disgusting  immoralities,  and  unmentionable  here  because  tabooed 
by  the  beau  monde,  were  daily  practised.  Below  these  peculiar 
haunts  of  questionable  entertainment  were  dives  of  disreputable 
dispensatories,  where  bubble-water  flowed  knee  deep,  and  on  a 
stage  brazen  hussies  sang  langorous  chansons,  and  ballet  dan- 
seuses  and  cafe  chanteuses,  naked  as  the  dawn  itself,  did  the 
can-can. 

For  some  days  antecedent  to  my  arrival  in  this  city,  I  had 
followed  a  heavy-headed  revel,  so  that  when  I  retired  to  couch 
in  a  curious  bed,  I  was  thoroly  impregnated  with  the  besom  of 
destruction,  so  much  so,  that,  due  to  aphasia,  I  had  not  admin- 
istered the  evening  hypodermic  injection  before  retiring.  When 
I  so  awoke,  I  felt  as  if  released  from  the  tentacula  of  some  ghostly 
hobgoblin  and  undergoing  the  agony  of  whisky  cramps. 

To  allay  this  condition,  I  hastily  assembled  together  in  the 
darkness  of  the  room,  the  poppy-seeded  wine.  I  dissolved  the 
"snow"  in  a  spoon,  drew  up  a  barrel  of  the  ebullition  and  into 
the  popliteal  space  of  my  left  limb,  I  injected  above  the  knee 
a  syringeful.  I  withdrew  the  needle  and  started  to  refill  the 
cylinder  of  the  "gun,"  when  I  was  served  with  notice  of  the 
needle  pricking  sensation  referred  to.  It  was  the  on  rush  of 
the  poisonous  blood. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


211 


/  had  struck  a  vein. 

I  was  cm  fait  as  to  the  therapeutics  of  the  case,  and  straight- 
way set  about  to  put  certain  theoretical  knowledge  to  a  practical 
test.  I  sought  the  open  air  in  order  to  get  the  strong  tonic  elixir 
represented  by  a  draught  of  cool,  spring  air,  rich  with  the  scent 
of  mother  earth,  and  otherwise  get  the  soft  ministrations  of  the 
good  nurse,  nature,  which  would  put  my  blood  in  circulation  and 
fill  me  with  a  gentle  vegetable  pleasure.  As  I  reached  the  street 
my  head  pounded  like  an  eccentric.  I  imagined  that  my  heart 
was  passing  the  limit  of  elasticity,  and  would  fly  to  pieces  like 
some  overdriven  flywheel.  I  imagined  that  my  head  would  blow 
off  as  great  pressure  blows  off  a  crown  sheet.  I  trembled;  a 
cloud  darkened  my  eyes ;  the  arteries  beat  with  violence.  I  was 
stunned  with  a  rushing  as  of  a  mighty  wind;  everything  about 
seemed  to  whirl  round,  and  suddenly  all  grew  dark — dark  beyond 
all  expression.  I  found  myself  running  round  and  round  in  a 
circle,  shouting  incoherently,  frothing  at  the  mouth,  until  I  fell 
exhausted,  a  twitching,  moaning,  writhing,  senseless  heap.  I 
imagined  that  this  was  the  death  struggle,  and  really  had 
thoughts  of  my  body  being  in  the  morning  the  subject  for  clinical 
surgery.  This  reflection  brought  about  a  terrible  spasm  of  brain 
and  heart,  and  I  mechanically  arose  and  kept  moving  in  my  con- 
tentions with  the  pestilent  scythe  of  death.  The  very  thought  of 
death  culminated  in  the  fullness  of  that  joy  of  living  which 
sparkles  most  brightly  under  its  very  shadow.  There  came  a 
deep  inspiration,  and  I  knew  that  the  worst  was  "on  the  tobog- 
gan. ' '  My  vision  became  clearer,  and  I  was  ' 1  out  of  the  woods. ' ' 

As  the  moon  was  wrapped  in  a  veil  of  yellow  gauze,  I  re- 
turned to  the  lodging  house  and  "shot"  the  remainder  of  the 
solution  into  the  tissues,  and,  climbing  into  bed,  I  slumbered 
until  awakened  by  Bridget,  the  Irish  chambermaid  of  this  three 
jitney  stable  for  human  lice. 

This  was  the  closest  rubber,  the  most  ticklish  tournament  that 
I  ever  had  with  the  Pale  Rider  in  all  my  drab  life  on  the  shifting, 
sinking  sands  of  time  as  a  player  upon  its  stage  of  fools,  and  I 
was  so  impressed  that  I  sought  the  dicta  of  respectable  sawbones 
to  get  analytic  dogma.  These  croakers  were  unanimous  that  I 
was  close  to  the  vague  and  shadowy  boundaries.  They  said  that 
it  was  in  articulo  mortis.  It  was  in  articulo  something,  for  I 
never  thereafter  introduced  the  needle  without  first  spotting  a 
broadway  on  the  skin  that  looked  good  to  me  beneath  the  glare 
of  Old  Sol  or  the  mellow  haze  of  a  friendly  light,  in  response  to 
instinct  rather  than  fear,  the  instinct  of  prudence  which  guides 
all  beings  and  makes  them  clear  sighted  in  danger. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


A  NIGHT  IN  BUGVILU 


"Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  'Sleep  no  more'." — Macbeth. 

Morphine  is  as  many  sided  as  clouds  are  many  formed,  and 
this  panacea  de  luxe  performs  more  remedial  offices  than  any 
other  drug  in  the  world 's  pharmacopoeia.  A  bolus  of  it  will  rock 
the  cradle  of  infancy  as  well  as  emblam  old  age  to  the  Nirvana  of 
dreams.  Judiciously  used  it  is  both  prophylactic  and  thera- 
peutic, while  on  the  other  hand  it  is  capable  of  producing  an 
Iliad  of  woes  more  death  dealing  than  the  deadly  Upas  tree  of 
the  Patagonian  sands. 

Truly  a  ship  that  sails  under  so  many  colors  is  not  to  be 
trusted ! 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  grief  and  care, 
while  I  was  a  wanton  slave  to  this  drug,  I  found  but  a  single 
instrumentality  that  defied  its  power.  Strange  to  say,  more 
strange  to  tell: 

It  was  an  army  of  bedbugs. 

Let  me  tell  it  aloud. 

FATE,  the  jester,  put  me  to  bed  one  sultry  July  evening  in 
a  cheap  lodging  house  on  Pacific  street,  San  Francisco.  It  was 
at  a  time  when  day  still  lingers  but  some  few  stars  began  faintly 
to  pierce  the  twilight.  The  place  was  an  unpretentious  three- 
story  frame  shack  which  clearly  showed  the  ravages  of  time  upon 
its  exterior,  and  which  was  even  more  accentuated  by  an  exam- 
ination of  its  bowels.  It  was  a  cloth  and  papered  house,  so  called 
because  the  ceilings  were  not  plastered  but  simply  covered  by 
stretched  whitewashed  cloth.  On  this  occasion  I  especially 
needed  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber,  for  had  I  not  just  that 
same  evening  annihilated  the  distance  from  Denver  in  three  days 
and  nights  with  such  disturbed  rest  as  was  afforded  by  the  rock- 
ing and  jerking  of  freight  trains  over  the  summits  and  thru  the 
defiles  of  the  Rockies? 

So  as  the  gray  fog  deepened  into  night  and  the  street  lamps 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


213 


started  into  shivering  light,  my  eyelids  were  weighed  down  by 
the  arrears  of  long-deferred  slumber.  Before  I  swung  into  bed, 
however,  I  commenced  an  examination  of  the  linen  and  covers  on 
the  bed  assigned  me,  and  while  I  found  that  the  latter  betrayed 
evidences  of  having  had  a  grudge  at  the  Chinese  laundry,  the 
sheets  and  pillow  cases  were  as  spotless  as  a  virgin's  virtue.  I 
knew  that  I  was  in  a  region  where  flies  and  gnats  went  off  duty 
at  sundown  or  on  the  approach  of  night  and  that  although  mos- 
quitoes did  duty  until  the  cock's  shrill  clarion,  the  windows  were 
heavily  screened  to  stop  their  assaults.  Now,  it  is  the  vogue 
among  knights  of  the  road  upon  retiring  to  disrobe  entirely,  so 
that  his  undergarments  may  not  become  contaminated  by  what 
are  in  the  parlance  of  the  ghetto  known  as  11  circus  bees,"  that 
old  Mosaic  plague  of  lice  visited  upon  Pharaoh  and  the  ancient 
Egyptians.  In  obedience  to  this  ethical  dictum,  I  peeled  off 
everything.  Being  dog-tired  and  benumbed  by  the  encroach- 
ments of  slumber,  I  failed  to  observe  anything  unusual  in  the 
appointments  and  settings  of  the  room,  and,  after  having 
„  anointed  myself  for  sleep  by  the  customary  ' '  shot ' '  of  morphine, 
I  was  soon  flopping  deshabille  upon  the  snowy  bosom  of  the 
1  'doss,"  as  Night,  sable  goddess,  from  her  ebon  throne,  in  ray- 
less  majesty  stretched  forth  her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumbering 
world. 

In  the  very  nature  of  things  I  could  not  have  dozed  very  long 
for  I  was  abruptly  awakened  by  the  sense  of  sharp  and  tingling 
bites  *  at  different  stations  of  my  body  which  actuated  me  to 
change  my  position  on  the  slats.  Another  lapse  followed,  this 
disturbance  when  I  was  again  aroused  by  similar  irritations  and 
they  became  so  regular  that  I  was  constrained  to  repeatedly 
change  my  position  from  one  side  of  the  bed  to  the  other  and 
also  to  alternately  lie  face  down,  and  then  belly-up.  As  a  result 
of  these  changes  of  position  I  stole  some  fleeting  seasons  of  sleep, 
but  only  to  awake  to  the  dreadful  sensibility  of  assaults  from 
all  conceivable  vantage  points. 

My  mind  became  at  once  very  active  in  a  contemplation  of 
sand  flees,  galnippers,  chiggers  and  other  pestiferous  creatures, 
and  yet  so  far  as  I  knew,  the  native  habitat  of  the  first  named 
is  the  State  of  Arkansaw  and  the  galnipper  was  far  away  in 
Jersey,  and  so  far  as  chiggers  was  concerned,  it  was  impossible. 
These  contemplations  solaced  my  reflections  and  I  forthwith 
instituted  a  search  for  lice.  As  I  focussed  the  incandescent  bulb 
upon  the  linen,  brown  specks  were  at  once  disclosed  to  my  gaze 
and  upon  still  closer  inspection  these  were  transformed  to  mov- 
ing, gyrating,  pulsating,  throbbing  parasites,  the  linen  and  bed- 
ding being  literally  alive  with  bedbugs.    With  this  flooding  of 


214 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  light  upon  the  bed,  the  elusive  insects  scampered  for  cover 
in  a  bedlam  of  precipitancy.  They  were  hurrying  here,  there, 
and  everywhere  upon  the  undulating  folds.  An  examination  of 
the  ceiling  and  the  walls  brought  to  light  not  hundreds,  not  thou- 
sands, but  it  seemed  millions  of  brown  specks  tattooed  thereon, 
and  closer  scrutiny  revealed  infinitesimal  holes,  ostensibly  the 
nests  and  feeding  grounds  of  incestuous  bedbug  germination. 
Their  scamperings  were  plainly  indicated  in  zigzag  movements 
of  the  sagging  cloth,  and  they  became  visible  when  the  light  was 
turned  on  by  finally  dropping  thru  the  holes  they  had  worn  in  it. 
Countless  caravans  of  all  sizes  engaged  in  a  distracted  riot  of 
stampede.  Evidently  they  were  all  heads  of  families  with  large 
progenies. 

I  was  intent  upon  further  discovery,  and  like  the  old  maid 
who  looked  under  the  bed  before  retiring  and  found  a  man  there, 
and  as  this  man  tried  to  make  his  getaway  was  forcibly  detained 
by  her,  and  who  afterwards  married  him,  so  the  story  goes,  so  I 
followed  her  example  and  found  the  legs  of  the  bed  imprisoned 
in  certain  queer  looking  receptacles  which  looked  like  innocent  , 
lard  cans,  betrayed  the  odor  of  lard  cans,  and  in  fact  were  lard 
cans.  Each  of  these  lard  cans  was  filled  to  the  brim  with  some 
subtle  liquid,  possibly  the  fine  liquid  of  nature,  and  the  genius 
of  intuition  taught  me  that  they  were  so  installed  to  frustrate 
any  pragmatic  encroachments  of  the  bugs  upon  the  bed.  An  im- 
provised moat  was  thereby  created  but  without  the  usual  draw- 
bridge— a  fabrication  of  human  ingenuity  invented  for  the  occa- 
sion and  for  which  no  patent  has  been  issued  as  yet,  so  far  as  I 
know. 

Upon  a  visualization  of  these  things,  I  became  brick-red  with 
perturbation,  "blew  out  the  gas"  and  again  clambered  onto  the 
slats,  this  time  urged  to  combat  the  kisses  of  sleep  and  await  any 
developments  fostered  by  the  tyrrany  of  time.  But  even  at  that 
I  was  up  against  the  proposition  that  the  artificial  means  em- 
ployed to  coax  the  purple  lidded  goddess  never  failed,  and  per- 
haps I  might  yet  yield  to  the  hypnotic  lullaby  of  its  susurration 
in  the  face  of  these  resolutions  to  fight  against  its  advance.  I 
did  not  believe  then,  but  I  do  verily  believe  now  that  had  I  suc- 
cumber  to  the  seductions  of  the  fickle  goddes  of  morphia,  which 
would  have  plunged  me  into  the  arms  of  the  soft-eyed  goddess  of 
sleep,  I  would  finally  have  been  wrapped  in  the  arms  of  death. 

However,  my  brain  was  alert  upon  the  theme  of  bugs,  bugs, 
bugs,  and  if  they  did  not  materialize  in  reality,  they  would  be 
there  in  my  fancy.  I  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  the  bugs  came  on 
schedule  time.  The  itching  sensations  upon  my  skin  seemed  to 
me  as  if  small  particles  of  foreign  matter  had  fallen,  riposting 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


215 


thuds  that  sounded  like  dripping  rain.  Then  there  followed 
pricking  punctures  and  a  zig-zag  crawling  over  my  body  like 
hounds  in  the  chase.  Although  I  was  reclining  on  my  back,  I  felt 
insistent  prods  in  that  region  as  if  forcing  all  the  arts  of  modern 
offensive  warfare.  These  became  so  intolerable  that  I  whirled 
out  of  bed  in  agonized  corporal  torment  and  mental  distemper. 
I  was  in  the  mood  to  desert  the  ship,  but  I  finally  compromised 
by  invoking  the  Calculus  of  Probabilities,  and  here  I  tossed  up 
a  Lincoln  penny  and  this  was  irretrievably  lost  by  falling  thru 
a  crack  in  the  floor.  To  be  thus  diddled,  I  saw  that  I  was  out  of 
luck  and  prepared  another  "shot"  of  the  narcotic,  and  as  I 
jabbed  the  hypodermic  in  my  arm  I  thought  that  this  "shot" 
was  as  sweet  as  remembered  kisses  after  death.  I  then  extin- 
guished the  filament,  laid  down  upon  the  bed  and  called  into 
requisition  every  known  modus  to  entice  the  dewy-feathered 
sleep.  I  counted  from  one  to  one  thousand  forty  times;  I  alter- 
nately raised  my  limbs  and  they  fell  in  rythmical  cadence  upon 
the  slats,  and  during  the  mental  count  I  concentrated  my  mind 
upon  the  single  theme  of  sleep,  sleep,  sleep.  Thus  did  I  assume 
the  role  of  an  auto-hypnotist  and  banked  strongly  on  suggestive 
therapeutics.  But,  strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  all  of  these  expe- 
dients, I  might  have  tried  to  dissolve  by  spontaneous  combustion. 
My  eyes  were  wide  open  and  staring  into  blank  obscurity,  while 
the  bugs  touched  the  button  and  did  the  rest.  They  swarmed 
about  me  in  a  perfect  bedlam  of  restless  activity  and  the  im- 
petuous spirit  of  sleep  refused  to  take  its  airy  rounds. 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  watch  of  the  night,  and  I  sat 
down  upon  the  bed  and  abandoned  myself  to  the  most  dismal 
reflections.  These  reflections  were  but  momentary,  for  some 
unseen  demon  hunched  me  to  apish  acrobatism,  and  I  rolled 
upon  the  floor  for  some  minutes  in  order  to  tire  myself  out. 
After  this,  I  relumed  the  light  and  scrutinized  my  body  and  saw 
revealed  thereon  the  havoc  made  by  the  pests.  I  was  literally 
tattooed  cap-a-pie  with  crimson  stains.  The  sanguinary  fluid 
stood  out  in  multiplied  spots  showing  irregular  splotches  and 
contorted  knots  as  red  as  the  flag  of  anarchy,  or  of  that  unmen- 
tionable organ  in  the  anatomy  of  the  jaybird  during  the  poke- 
berry  season.  I  hustled  into  my  breeching  and  made  still  an- 
other examination.  I  found  also  upon  the  walls  hordes  moving 
with  great  celerity  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  ceiling,  from  which  I 
noted  that  they  fell  upon  the  bed,  while  those  on  the  floor  in 
myriad  numbers  rambled  toward  the  lard  cans  with  the  evident 
purpose  of  gaining  access  to  the  bed  by  this  means.  I  flashed  my 
searchlight  upon  the  cans  and  my  reflections  were  confirmed, 
for  the  bugs  by  some  subtle  instinct  of  sixth  sense  were  rapidly 


216 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


crossing  an  improvised  "Bridge  of  Sighs"  made  by  a  parlor 
match  floating  upon  the  surface  of  the  fluid.  As  they  were 
being  systematically  ferried  across  there  came  in  fancy  to  my 
ears  the  familiar  strains  of  that  undying  selection,  "Life  on  the 
ocean  wave." 

I  was  amused  at  this  scheme  of  the  bugs  and  I  gave  myself 
over  to  thoughts  about  the  poetic  versification  that  these  var- 
mints have  no  wings  but  they  get  there  just  the  same. 

I  now  turned  the  mattress  of  the  bed  over  and  the  offensive 
stench  that  filled  the  chamber  nearly  stifled  me.  On  its  under 
side  whole  broods  of  them  resided  in  confused  masses  and  the 
place  was  smudged  in  bedbug  perfumery.  In  this  dilemma,  I 
called  for  help  sharply,  and  I  might  as  well  have  asked  the  dead 
to  rise.   No  voice  issued  from  the  tomb-like  repose. 

What  could  I  do  » 

I  could  not  suffer  myself  to  return  to  the  bed  and  give 
myself  over  to  these  pestiferous  critters.  I  could  not  very  con- 
sistently "carry  the  banner,"  and  thereby  subject  myself  in  this 
great  city  to  arrest  by  some  shadbelly  of  the  night  police  and 
take  a  chance  of  passing  the  remainder  of  the  morning  within 
the  sombre  precincts  of  the  city  conciergerie.  My  Lincoln  penny 
was  gone,  so  I  compromised  by  sitting  up  in  a  chair.  In  this 
situation  I  tried  every  known  effort  to  beguile  the  time  until  the 
advent  of  day.  But  here  I  had  no  time  to  even  assume  a  restful 
state  for  I  at  once  felt  a  suspicious  sting  in  the  region  of  the 
cervix,  and,  placing  my  hand  there  in  an  effort  to  scratch  the 
part,  I  glommed  a  corpulent  wingless  bird.  Of  course,  I  assassi- 
nated it  vi  et  armis,  the  operation  precipitating  an  engorgement 
of  loathsome  blood  which  squirted  in  the  perfumed  atmosphere. 

I  was  now  thoroly  alarmed. 

My  duds  were  aglow  with  bugs  and  I  observed  them  coming 
in  droves  from  the  inner  recesses  thereof.  I  had  murder  in  my 
heart  and  I  believe  that  had  I  encountered  the  pie-faced,  pig- 
headed old  nozzle  of  a  proprietor  of  that  cheap  lodging  house 
at  the  moment,  I  would  have  tried  to  throttle  him  willy  nilly. 
I  hated  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  with  all  the  fierce  old 
anger  which  then  would  have  filled  me  with  delight  and  pride 
if  I  could  have  had  his  anointed  blood  smoking  in  the  runnels 
of  my  sword. 

I  heard  the  siren  whistle  for  morning  work  and  betook  myself 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


217 


to  a  nearby  steam  beer  saloon  and  there  baptized  myself  with 
several  flagons  of  this  Pacific  Coast  brew  until  I  heard  the 
shrill  clarion  of  the  cock — the  rosy  fingered  daughter  of  the 
morn — and  saw  the  gray  shadows  of  returning  day.  I  noticed 
that  some  of  the  unwelcome  guests  had  quietly  slipped  from  my 
attire,  but  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  I  moped  to  the  out- 
skirts, and  peeling  off  my  garments  there  in  the  foggy  dawn,  and 
while  yet  the  thickets  were  bearded  with  the  million  jewels  of 
the  morning  and  the  earth  breathed  of  repose  and  sleep,  I  sub- 
jected each  piece  to  a  thoro  shaking  and  jarred  Mr.  Johnsing 
loose. 

Buoyed  up  by  a  few  calabashes  of  jitney  bubble  water,  I  re- 
turned to  the  lodging  house,  confided  to  the  landlord  my  woes, 
and  indulging  in  a  volcano  of  choice  expletives,  threatened  to 
sue  him  and  publicly  advertise  him  if  he  refused  to  redress  my 
wrongs.  He  stood  up  like  a  stricken  deer  at  bay.  I  was  smart- 
ing under  the  scourge  of  my  martingale  and  he  was  blowing  hot 
and  cold  alternately.  While  we  argued  the  pros  and  cons  and 
balanced  the  whys,  the  wherefores,  the  becauses  and  whereupons, 
I  lawyerlike  and  he  liarlike,  I  incidentally  noticed  a  stallion  bed- 
bug crawling  over  the  hotel  register.  I  called  the  attention  of 
the  landlord  to  this  fantastic  phase,  at  the  same  time  facetitiously 
remarking  that  the  bedbug  was  in  all  probability  searching  for 
the  number  of  some  lodger's  room.  Although  in  a  measure  still 
sheathed  in  ice  and  holding  his  own  against  odds,  I  became  aware 
of  the  possibility  that  old  stoneheart  was  weakening  and  that  evi- 
dently my  shares  had  risen  in  value  with  him.  I  then  got  hold  of 
the  right  end  of  the  string  thread,  so  that  the  skein  could  not  un- 
ravel and  called  his  bluff.  But  he  actually  seemed  upset  as  he 
called  out  the  name  of  "Rachel"  in  a  hoarse  exclamation.  Of 
•course,  I  had  prior  to  this  concluded  that  he  was  of  Hebraic 
faith  and  when  he  called  his  wife's  name  I  knew  that  she  must 
be  one  of  Judah's  daughters  and  he  a  circumcized  Jew.  When 
she  appeared  upon  the  scene  we  both  dilated  on  the  facts  of  the 
case  and  finally  agreed  that  Rachel  should  be  both  judge  and 
jury,  and  I  played  my  last  trump  card  by  inviting  her  to  observe 
an  extraordinarily  obese  bug  crawling  upon  old  crooked  face's 
immaculate  collar.  When  Parthenia  saw  the  bug  she  said  to 
Ingomar:    "Pay  the  man." 

"Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond ? ' '  inquired  the  wise  owl. 

"It  is  not  so  expressed;  but  what  of  that? 


218 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


1 '  Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity ' '  replied  Parthenia. 

' '  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment " ;  I  buttinskied. 

It  is  an  awful  responsibility  to  get  to  a  point  like  this  in  a 
story  where  the  author  has  to  either  make  good  or  quit.  But  I 
am  going  to  do  both.    The  tale  is  practically  ended  anyway. 

Owing  to  the  rough  house  that  the  company  was  making  on 
this  early  Sunday  morning,  a  policeman  entered  and  threatened 
to  pinch  the  bunch  en  bloc;  whereupon  the  Jew  drew  from  his 
wallet  a  crisp  $50  bill  and  handed  it  to  your  orator,  who  on  the 
instant  left  this  notorious  hotbed  of  bugology,  resolved  never  to 
return  while  the  sunlight  of  his  reason  should  exist  and  memory 
holds  a  seat  in  this  distracted  globe. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


BEAUTY  WITHOUT  VIRTUE  IS  A  FLOWER 
WITHOUT  PERFUME 


''This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever  ran  upon  the 
greensward^ — The  Winter's  Tale. 

There  has  been  embalmed  to  the  perpetuity  of  accumulated 
wisdom  the  philosophy  that  there  is  no  disputing  taste,  and  this 
is  in  ipsissimis  verbis  what  the  cow  said  when  it  kissed  the  mush- 
faker. 

I  believe  that  men  more  readily  renounce  their  interests 
than  their  tastes,  and  when  one  sets  up  an  idol  upon  a  pedestal 
as  his  paragon  of  perfection  and  excellence,  as  the  very  personifi- 
cation of  his  ideality,  as  the  very  mirror  of  his  hyperbolic  dreams, 
such  an  idol  may  be  shattered  by  one  of  antipodal  intellectual 
relish,  for  once  I  heard  a  wag  declare  that  the  most  beautiful 
creature  in  the  world,  barring  the  women  of  course,  is  the  real 
python  snake.  I  have  perforce  concluded  that  some  critics  are 
without  souls,  and  are  like  judges  who  know  all  the  points  of 
procedure  but  have  no  grasp  of  the  principles  of  law  and  no  in- 
sight into  its  equities.  Speculative  criticism  is  generally  futile, 
and  when  dogmatic  is  disgusting. 

It  is  axiomatic  that  there  are  no  two  persons  precisely  alike 
in  physiognomy,  but  what  is  more  wonderful  than  that  the  count- 
less sands  of  the  seashore  reflect  dissimilarity  under  the  most 
powerful  microscopic  lens? 

So  far  as  female  loveliness  is  concerned,  it  has  been  the 
polestar  of  singularly  diverse  arbitrament  from  the  birth  of 
time,  whenever  that  was,  to  the  present  epoch,  and  will  continue 
to  rivet  the  popular  mind  as  a  crux  criticorum,  long  after  the  last 
picture  of  earth  is  painted,  and  the  tubes  become  twisted  and 
dried.  The  beauty  of  women  is  like  music,  captivating  and  allur- 
ing, and  all  poets  have  felt  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
so  lovely  as  a  lovely  woman.    The  ineffable  and  transcendent 


220 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


lustre  of  women  they  have  woven  in  the  threnody  of  verse ;  and 
painters  have  vividly  portrayed  in  the  prismatic  nuances  of  the 
rainbow  their  delicate  lines,  symmetrical  curves  and  angelic 
ensembles.  Typical  goddesses  have  been  extolled  in  both  grand- 
iose magniloquence  and  prismatic  tints,  from  the  rustic  dairy- 
maid robed  in  linsey-woolsey  to  society  queens.  But  plainly  the 
rare  gift  of  beauty  must  come  from  Heaven.,  I  opine  that  no 
other  bard  has  portrayed  in  the  genius  of  versification  such  a 
coterie  of  women  as  has  Shakespeare.  In  the  witchcraft  of  his 
tongue  he  forces  them  upon  the  stage  from  Isabella,  the  votaress, 
Ophelia,  the  rose  of  Elsinore  and  Juliet,  the  white  dove  of  Ver- 
ona, from  the  saucy  ones  habited  in  doublet  and  hose,  Viola, 
Rosalind,  Julia  and  Jessica  to  royal  wenches  on  and  off  a  throne. 

In  my  migratory  peregrinations,  my  footsteps  brought  me  to 
many  strands,  and  this  sight  of  diverse  femininity  developed  in 
me  the  quality  of  selection,  if  not  the  capacity  of  a  connoisseur. 
I  have  mingled  with  the  real  Geisha  girls  of  the  Orient.  Under 
court  escort,  I  have  invaded  the  Harem  of  the  Ottoman  Sultan. 
I  have  touched  the  hems  of  the  garments  of  the  Egyptian,  Gre- 
cian, Castilian  and  French  exemplars;  the  Russian,  the  Levan- 
tine, the  Teutonic,  the  Tyrolean  type,  the  Algerian  beauty,  the 
light-hearted  blonde  Circassian,  the  English  "princess,"  the 
"braw"  Scotch  lassie,  the  wild  Irish  mavoureen.  Each  in  her 
singleness  of  individuality  challenged  my  emotions,  but  at  last 
it  remained  for  the  United  States  of  America  to  furnish  me  in 
my  outre  aestheticism  and  serve  predilections  of  feminine  charm, 
an  examplar  that  at  once  arrested  my  concentrated  idolatry  and 
sent  the  blood  rushing  thru  me  like  unto  the  shock  from  an  elec- 
tric battery. 

Let  not  the  reader  by  hypnotized  into  the  belief  that  for  the 
reason  that  I  was  hypnotized  by  morphine  and  other  narcotics 
upon  the  occasion  of  my  focussing  this  charming  female,  that  I 
was  thereby  stripped  of  the  capacity  to  differentiate  nice  dis- 
tinctions, or  that  I  possessed  the  facility  to  soar  into  the  regions 
of  the  purely  ideal.  Rather  believe  that  these  drugs  afforded 
me  the  divine  nature,  the  heavenly  spark  of  discriminating  in- 
stinct of  the  most  exacting  and  extortionate  critic. 

This  woman  thrilled  me,  maddened  me,  absolutely  sent  my 
soul  to  perdition  with  her  inimitable  fascination. 

The  occasion  was  a  trolley  ride  from  Boulder,  Colo.,  to  Den- 
ver. My  queen  was  already  seated  in  the  car  when  I  entered 
about  one  o  'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  sultry  day  in  June,  a  day 
when  all  nature  was  trickled  in  holiday  attire.  Many  passengers 
were  lazily  filling  up  the  car  as  my  human  doll  lazily  perused 
the  pages  of  Be  Profundis.    In  her  right  hand  she  held  a  tiny 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


221 


fan  and  as  I  strode  down  the  aisle,  she  looked  up  in  roguish 
hauteur  and  vamped  the  car  with  her  violet  eyes,  which  shone 
with  mystic  light,  in  one  comprehensive  sweep  of  her  inflamma- 
tory glance. 

Truly  a  woman's  eyes  are  mirrors  in  which  a  man  can  see 
the  whole  world  if  love  is  the  telescope  thru  which  he  looks. 

I  felt  an  inward  shock,  and  her  mere  glance  sent  a  thrill 
right  thru  my  heart,  causing  a  delicious  flutter  there,  and  I 
really  thought  that  there  was  a  faint  trace  of  coquetry  in  her 
that  the  angels  would  have  pardoned. 

The  magic  of  a  lovely  face  in  woman  is  a  power  which  the 
aesthetic  mortal  finds  it  impossible  to  resist.  But  here  was 
facial  beauty  personified,  incarnate,  the  beau-ideal  of  my  wild- 
est and  most  enthusiastic  visions.  The  head  rivalled  the  Greek 
Psyche  in  outline.  In  beauty  of  face,  no  maiden  ever  equalled 
her.  It  was  the  radiance  of  an  opium  dream.  She  had  a  Ma- 
donna-like air  and  a  calm-eyed  aplomb  that  proclaimed  her  the 
highest  product  of  a  classic  caste  of  beauty,  possibly  better  con- 
veyed by  the  Homeric  epithet  hyacinthine. 

Around  her  there  was  an  odor  of  chastity,  a  charm  of  virtue. 
Her  gestures,  all  the  harmonious  lines  that  composed  her  gra- 
cious form  were  instinct  with  the  charm  of  modesty.  There  was 
an  intangible,  gripping  lure  about  her  personality.  All  that  I 
had  ever  seen  or  dreamed  of  loveliness  was  in  that  matchless  liv- 
ing picture  by  the  hand  of  the  divine  artist. 

Before  Miss  Petticoats  lowered  her  eyes  to  Wilde's  pages,  I 
flashed  back  a  smile,  but  at  that  I  was  painfully  conscious  of 
a  rudeness,  yet  so  dominated  by  the  emotion  inspired  by  that 
vision  of  incomparable  beauty  that  my  pretense  was  less  poig- 
nant than  it  should  have  been. 

Her  dress  was  despairingly  common,  but  en  regie,  being  a 
singular  exception  to  the  eternal  rule  which  ordains  that  "fine 
feathers  make  fine  birds, ' '  but  it  was  comme  il  faut,  the  soft  pink 
fabric  of  her  decollete  gown,  revealing  all  the  translucent  loveli- 
ness of  her  enamelled  arms  and  neck  and  shoulders,  harmonizing 
with  the  color  of  her  fan.  She  wore  a  narrow-brimmed  leghorn 
hat,  wreathed  in  ostrich  plumes  with  a  gold  cord  round  its  crown 
with  all  its  becomingness  and  picturesque  audacity;  a  flannel 
shirt  belted  in  at  her  slight  waist  with  a  band  of  yellow  leather 
defining  her  comely  biceps  and  short,  straight  pleatless  skirts 
that  fell  to  her  trim  ankles  and  buckled  leather  keds.  Where  the 
tight  bodice  was  cut  away  over  her  white  bosom,  she  had  pinned 
a  peony  of  flaming  scarlet,  full-blown.  She  was  fresh  and  cool, 
wholesome  and  clean. 

I  paid  flattering  homage  to  this  queenly  apparition  for  some 


222 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


lazy  minutes,  as  if  I  had  been  suddenly  converted  to  stone.  While 
I  was  thus  wrapped  in  admiration  of  this  lovely  vision,  the  fact 
that  other  oculars  were  glued  upon  her  in  ravished  wonderment, 
did  not  escape  my  notice.  From  the  time  of  departure  at 
Boulder  until  arrival  at  Denver,  this  beauty  was  the  target  of 
more  leering  rubber-necks,  amatory  surfeiters,  "sissy-boy"  og- 
lers,  callow  blades,  Broadway  Johnnies  and  marble-top  bald- 
heads  that  ever  assaulted  the  side  door  of  a  theatre  awaiting  the 
egress  of  a  chorus  girl. 

An  array  of  swell  female  frills  was  in  the  car,  and  these  pruri- 
ent souls  continually  goggled  her  by  rotating  in  their  seats,  fast- 
ening wondering  gazes  upon  her  and  quizzically  focussing  her 
from  different  axes  of  vision,  as  in  a  parallax  of  the  moon.  In 
fact,  one  of  these  lady  passengers  had  the  abnormal  temerity  to 
train  a  pair  of  opera  glasses  on  the  poor  thing,  and  a  fuzzy- 
wuzzy  roue  sporting  a  cluster  of  weeping-willoy  "galways"  and 
a  giraffe  neck,  surpassed  all  limits  by  adjusting  his  monocle  and 
rubbering  her  for  further  orders. 

The  pivot  of  this  indiscriminate  concentration  eclipsed  a  smile 
and  answered  her  pestiferous  slaves  with  les  doux  yeux.  This 
latter  involved  a  slight  shifting  of  her  person.  Such  an  uncon- 
scious revelation  of  her  charms  stimulated  more  shuffling  and 
commotion  among  her  ardent,  amorous  idolators  and  passionate 
lustiheads,  which  now  engendered  an  attitude  of  icy  reserve  on 
her  part,  and  what  might  have  happened  about  this  time  had  the 
car  not  reached  Denver,  I  cannot  conjecture.  As  the  car  slowed 
up  to  permit  passengers  to  alight,  the  gazabo  with  the  cluster  of 
grapes  and  a  lady-killing  cheap  flash  of  a  dude  seeing  that 
Fluffy  Euffles  had  closed  her  volume  of  the  apostle  of  sunflow- 
ers, leaped  out  of  the  car  and  stood  ready  to  receive  the  descend- 
ing goddess,  while  an  elderly  concupiscent  grabbed  her  book,  her 
fan  and  her  chatelaine  bag.  In  this  multiplicity  of  attention 
there  was  some  momentary  confusion  and  delay.  The  aforemen- 
tioned grasped  her  hands  and  with  that  decision  and  positiveness 
which  a  hesitating  and  undecided  sex  know  how  to  admire,  in  an 
instant  with  majestic  dignity,  they  had  dextrously  and  gracefully 
swung  her  to  earth.  For  this  courtesy  she  sent  them  a  butterfly 
kiss  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers  and  walked  away  with  unfet- 
tered freedom  of  limb.  As  she  did  so,  I  thought  that  Paradise 
opened  and  Heaven  walked  on  earth — that  all  the  birds  of  Para- 
dise sang  round  her  in  the  shining  and  perfumed  air. 

Her  royal  highness  was  a  faultless,  hydrogenated  blonde — 
a  real  Titian — a  young  creature  of  opulent  charms — about 
twenty  years  of  age,  in  stature  tall  and  somewhat  svelte.  I  do 
not  say  that  she  was  handsome;  this  living,  breathing  beauty 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


223 


was  pretty.  Such  a  rare  beauty  was  never  before  seen  thru 
Bohemian  eyes.    Never  was  Umbrian  or  Iberian  girl  like  her. 

I  would  in  vain  attempt  to  portray  the  majesty,  the  quiet 
ease  of  her  demeanor  or  the  incomprehensible  lightness  and  elas- 
ticity of  her  footfall.  Her  features  were  singularly  fine  and 
delicate.  She  had  a  face  of  ruddy  ivory.  Her  violet  eyes  and 
corn-silk  coiffure  hinted  of  Irish  ancestry ;  her  hair  curled  pret- 
tily about  her  ears ;  her  flocculent  blonde  curls  fell  in  a  wall  of 
gold  like  the  delicate  gossamer  tangles  spun  on  the  burnished 
disk  of  the  marigold  and  were  brushed  back  from  her  forehead 
a  la  pompadour.  These  sunny  locks  hung  on  her  temples  like 
a  golden  fleece  and  they  gleamed  in  the  sunshine  like  the  locks 
of  the  young  goddess  Medusa;  and  here  I  thought  that  the 
painter  played  the  spider  and  wove  a  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the 
hearts  of  men  faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs.  A  pearl  collar 
clasped  her  white  throat,  a  throat  whiter  than  the  slivered  dove 
and  her  neck  was  like  white  melolite.  She  had  a  gypsy  head  and 
a  wasplike  waist.  There  was  a  warm  glow  in  her  cheeks — a 
couleur  de  rose — cheeks  that  were  like  the  fading  stain  where  the 
peach  reddens  to  the  South,  or  like  the  sun  seen  thru  a  shell, 
a  pale  flush,  an  agitated  whiteness ;  two  dimples  sported  in  them, 
and  when  not  in  repose,  the  teeth  glanced  back  with  a  brilliancy 
almost  startling  every  ray  of  the  holy  light  which  fell  upon  them 
in  her  serene  and  placid,  yet  most  exultingly  radiant  of  all  smiles. 
In  this  smile  there  were  revealed  even  rows  of  teeth  of  the  bluish 
milky  whiteness  of  the  pips  of  Indian  corn. 

She  was  a  priestess  of  the  spirit  of  summer.  Her  aplomb 
was  religiously  symmetrical.  She  seemed  as  fresh  as  the  morn- 
ing dew,  and  her  lips  which  were  made  to  kiss,  were  like  unpara- 
goned  rubies.  White  and  violet-laced  were  those  languishing 
mercurial  windows  of  the  soul — lights  that  do  mislead  the  moon. 
For  downright  beauty,  neither  art  nor  Venus  herself  had  any- 
thing on  her.  Dolls  and  angels  didn't  even  have  a  look-in. 
Truly,  she  could  pose  for  Mercury ! 

Whether  queen  or  coutesan,  saint  or  sinner,  she  was  the  cun- 
ningest  pattern  of  excelling  nature — the  most  radiant,  exquisite 
and  unmatchable  beauty  that  I  had  ever  beheld.  To  me  she 
seemed  lovelier  than  Diana's  purple  robe.  She  was  the  necrom- 
ancy, the  very  apotheosis  of  female  loveliness.  She  was  in  fact 
the  queen  of  the  fairies.  In  feminine  charm  she  eclipsed  even 
the  Serpent  of  the  Nile.  She  was  a  perfect  beauty  that  would 
have  made  Petrarch  sing  and  Dante  kneel.  Verily,  her  beauty 
would  have  restored  a  mad  man  to  his  senses. 

Her  complexion  was  like  an  unbleached  rose,  with  classic 
lines ;  an  alluring,  stunning,  delirious,  seductive,  ravishing,  amor- 


224 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ous,  killing,  thrilling,  distracting,  bewitching  voluptuousness 
marked  her  tout  ensemble — a  theme  for  poets,  the  despair  of 
painters.  Mere  words  are  soundless  to  convey  the  least  flicker  of 
an  estimate. 

"The  senate  house  of  planets  all  did  sit 
To  knit  in  her  their  best  perfections. ' ' 

She  seemed  the  prototype  of  virginity;  she  reflected  the  ty- 
ranny of  beauty;  she  looked  an  iridescent  dream;  she  posed  as 
an  incandescent  lily. 

Now,  I  do  confess  that  the  only  justification  for  the  continua- 
tion of  this  episode,  is  in  consideration  of  its  climax.  I  realize 
that  the  narrative  thus  recalled  in  such  detail  as  I  can  remember, 
deals  simply  with  a  dope  fiend's  estimate  of  a  charming  female 
face  and  form,  and  the  natural  and  regular  thing  would  be  to 
end  it  here.  Nevertheless  I  write  again,  not  a  whit  the  worse 
for  a  mischance  which  would  have  silenced  many  a  man,  and  in 
a  mood  to  tell  you  of  this  climax,  wonderful  enough  to  strain  the 
sides  of  your  shallow  modern  skepticism,  as  new  wine  stretches  a 
goat-skin  bottle. 

Permit  me,  then,  to  intoxicate  the  impressionable  senses  of 
the  reader. 

I  was  inclined  to  the  belief  that  our  heroine  belonged  to  the 
blue-stocking  set,  and  yet,  so  far  as  I  knew,  she  might,  perchance, 
belong  to  the  lower  middle  class  or  else  a  unit  of  the  bottom 
stratum  of  society,  and  as  to  this  latter  speculation,  I  ought  to 
have  considered  the  significance  of  the  red  peony,  the  emblem  of 
sin  upon  her  bosom.  I  therefore  followed  her  with  the  idea 
uppermost  in  my  mind  of  determining  this  to  my  entire  satis- 
faction. How  far  I  was  from  the  truth  may  be  educed  from  the 
fact  that  she  continued  on  her  way  after  having  alighted  at  Six- 
teenth and  Curtis  streets,  to  Sixteenth  and  Market  streets.  I 
had  half  expected,  however,  that  when  she  so  alighted  at  16th 
and  Curtis  streets,  she  would  move  toward  the  State  Capital, 
where  the  nobbiest  homes  are  located.  At  Sixteenth  and  Market 
streets  she  proceeded  along  Market  street  to  the  restricted  dis- 
trict. I  was  close  to  her  heels  and  as  I  fox-trotted  along,  I  read 
the  names  on  the  doors  of  the  one-story  houses,  viz,  Lizzie,  Marie, 
Annie,  Flossie,  Ruth,  Mamie,  Daisy,  Penelope  and  a  host  of 
others  on  either  side  of  the  street.  She  halted  before  the  door 
of  one  of  these  squatty  and  dingey  bagnios  where  the  name  Beryl 
was  written  with  some  artistic  touch.  Here  she  "picked  the 
lock"  and  trickled  into  its  depth,  and  it  was  at  this  time  that 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


225 


I  knew  that  she  had  committed  that  sin  that  caused  her  sister 
women  to  draw  their  skirts  closer  to  them  on  the  street  when 
they  passed  her.  At  this  turn  of  events,  I  fell  back  absolutely 
mortified  and  stung,  for  she  was  a  princess  of  the  demi-monde, 
a  damsel  of  licentious  pleasure,  a  daughter  of  joy,  an  angel  of 
darkness,  a  feminine  apache  of  the  red-light,  in  short,  a  scarlet 
woman — a  vampire  soul  behind  a  lovely  face. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


MAROONED  BETWEEN  THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA 


"//  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  the  winds  Now  till  they  have  wakened  death." 

—Othello. 

In  the  cloudless  blue  of  an  April  sky  I  climbed  into  the  bowels 
of  an  empty  box-car  in  the  railroad  yards  at  Grand  Island,  Ne- 
braska. The  car  was  a  long  string  of  empties  going  West  on  the 
Union  Pacific  line.  I  had  just  prior  to  this  injected  twenty 
grains  of  morphine,  so  that  there  might  follow  sufficient  physi- 
cal relaxation  and  mental  exhilaration  for  the  long  trip  to  Den- 
ver. I  distinctly  recall  the  familiar  highball  out,  the  consequent 
jerk  of  the  cars  and  a  rumbling  sound  as  the  flanges  gripped  the 
metals  and  the  train  moved  along  indicating  a  full  head  of  steam 
over  the  glistening  rails.  Under  its  aegis  and  the  thrill  of  the 
' 'shot,"  I  was  resting,  as  with  the  droop  of  tired  wings,  in  one 
corner  of  the  car.  The  last  thing  I  remember  is  that  the  scarlet 
bars  of  sunset  lay  in  the  sea-green  meadows  of  the  sky. 

I  have  no  clear  recollection  after  this  of  anything  until  I 
awoke  in  utter  darkness  and  found  my  temporary  abiding  place 
switched  to  a  siding  in  an  apparently  lonely  place.  I  fancied 
with  the  bard,  that  it  was  about  the  witching  time  of  night, 
when  graveyards  yawn  and  hell  itself  breathes  out  contagion  to 
this  world. 

A  contemplation  of  the  terrible  experiences  I  had  in  that  car 
almost  freezes  the  blood  and  truly  harrows  the  soul,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  bard  was  right  notwithstanding  that 
still  another  poet  has  versified  that  midnight  is  the  holy  hour 
when  silence  like  a  gentle  spirit,  broods  o'er  the  still  and  pulse- 
less world.  And  it  is  quite  likely  that  each  of  these  poets  has 
hallowed  the  time  in  keeping  with  his  sentiment. 

I  declare  with  final  emphasis,  that  from  the  time  that  I  so 
awoke  in  that  car  up  to  the  time  that  the  usual  calm  succeeds  the 
pandemonium  of  the  elements,  there  was  no  silence  brooding  o'er, 
no  gentle  spirits  hovering  about. 

As  I  arose  from  my  temporary  sleeping  quarters  in  the  corner 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


227 


of  the  car,  I  searched  my  partially  drenched  habiliments  to  see 
that  my  morphine  layout  was  safely  stored  therein.  This  is  the 
primary  instinct  of  the  dope  fiend.  Having  found  it  intact,  I 
looked  out  one  of  the  doors  of  the  car,  both  of  which  were  wide 
open.  It  was  raining,  and  the  earth  opened  its  pores  to  the  first 
round  drops  that  pattered  on  the  car  roof,  and  the  thunder  began 
to  murmur  distantly  under  the  purple  mantle  of  the  coming 
storm.  The  car  was  swaying  from  side  to  side  under  the  tumult 
of  the  wind  like  a  dory  at  the  mercy  of  a  choppy  sea.  On  the 
outer  atmosphere  was  Cimmerian,  Egyptian  darkness — a  black 
sweltering  desert  of  ebony,  a  vast  livid  opacity.  I  thought  that 
I  was  one  thousand  miles  from  nowhere.  I  was  afraid  of  my  own 
voice,  altho'  it  would  have  been  drowned  in  the  prevailing  din. 
The  wind  howled  like  unloosed  demons  and  the  air  grew  cold ;  the 
deep  and  dreadful  organ  pipe  of  thunder  bellowed  with  ominous 
detonation ;  no  light  broke  the  smooth  velvet  darkness  except  red- 
toothed  lightning,  which  danced  in  the  horizon  to  a  broken  tune 
played  by  the  far-off  thunder.  Its  flashes  illuminated  the  heav- 
ens and  the  land  prospect  in  a  shimmering  brightness,  and  by 
this  means  I  soon  discovered  that  my  car  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
boundless  prairie  without  even  the  semblance  of  a  human  hut 
within  the  purview  of  my  searching  gaze  indicated  by  a  light. 
The  earth  seemed  soaked  and  sodden  and  brooded  over  by  sullen 
clouds,  which  hung  like  crape  hammocks  beneath  the  starry  cope 
of  night.  I  was  all  by  my  lonesome,  a  pivot  for  the  malice  of  the 
elements  on  that  vast  floor  of  the  heavens. 

Fear,  craven  fear  now  seized  me  and  in  order  to  quiet  it,  I 
injected  another  "shot.""  Fears  make  devils  of  cherubims,  and 
with  this  injection  I  felt  equal  to  scorning  any  danger,  even  to 
facing  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself  and  the  general  powers 
of  darkness.  Did  I  fear  now  ?  I  who  had  been  a  dope  fiend  for 
many  years  and  who  could  inject  a  hypodermic  of  morphia,  coco- 
aine,  chloral  or  hasheesh  when  a  train  hurried  along  at  eighty 
miles  per  hour? 

John  Barleycorn  conveyed  Tarn  O'Shanter  and  his  gray  mare 
over  a  running  stream  cursed  by  a  malediction,  and  under  its 
dominion  men  are  known  to  have  challenged  the  Duke  of  Hell. 
Fortified  by  the  - '  shot ' '  I  bent  up  each  corporal  agent  to  defend 
against  the  assaults  of  the  elements  and  buckled  on  the  armor  of 
resistance  with  a  determination  and  nerve  to  fight  to  the  last 
trench.  I  therefore  mocked  the  wild  gossip  of  the  storm  and 
grimly  wove  the  infernal  whispers  of  the  place  into  the  thread 
of  my  fancies.  0,  thou  mighty  mandragora,  thou  givest  courage 
to  the  helpless  and  thou  holdest  out  hope  to  the  lost ! 

Up  to  this  time,  however,  I  had  not  reckoned  with  another 


228 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


enemy  more  dreadful  than  the  heaven's  frown.  I  was  to  be  as- 
saulted by  an  annoyance  of  an  entirely  different  character.  It 
has  been  said  that  if  one  speak  of  the  wolf,  his  tail  will  be  seen. 
The  gaudy,  babbling  and  remorseless  day  is  crept  into  the  bosom 
of  the  sea  and  now  loud  howling  wolves  arouse  the  jades,  who, 
with  their  drowsy,  slow  and  flagging  wings,  clip  dead  men's 
graves  and  from  their  misty  jaws  breathe  foul  contagious  dark- 
ness in  the  air. 

From  the  meagre  knowledge  that  I  had  absorbed  touching 
lupine  ferocity  I  was  inoculated  with  the  belief  that  fire  was  a 
deterrent.  But  they  now  seemed  to  be  attracted  by  this  pre- 
conceived barrier,  for  in  taking  the  "shot"  of  morphine  I  had 
lighted  several  matches,  and  my  form  could  be  seen  in  the  inter- 
mittent flashes  of  lightning  as  I  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  car. 
By  this  same  means  I  saw  a  band  of  them  madly  bounding  to- 
ward me.  They  snarled  and  snapped  and  their  eyes  glistened 
with  a  hellish  hate,  their  tongues  lolled  out  in  the  fury  of  bestial 
hunger.  Between  the  flashes  of  heaven's  light,  I  was  enabled 
to  almost  count  the  ribs  that  stood  out  like  the  undulations  of 
corrugated  iron.  Their  eyes  were  afire,  their  fangs  were  agleam 
and  slaver  was  driveling  from  their  famished  mouths.  They 
gave  the  appearance  of  having  been  already  half  devoured  by  the 
cannibal  pack. 

The  windows  of  heaven  were  now  opened  wide,  and  the  rain 
roared  on  the  roof  and  pelted  and  drove  its  bolts  like  buckshot 
against  the  car.  The  wild  fantastic  uproar  of  the  tempest  forced 
the  rain  streaks  thru  the  clefts  of  my  retreat,  gusts  were  driven 
thru  the  open  doors  and  a  thunderous  tattoo  played  upon  the 
roof.  The  heavens  sent  down  enough  rain  on  that  night  that 
washed  the  earth  clean.  These  impacts  spelled  fearful  omens 
for  me.  It  might  readily  be  reflected  that  such  a  tremendous 
clatter  would  contribute  to  a  diminution  of  the  lupine  instinct 
of  ferocity,  but  from  the  babel  of  snarling  and  bellowing  outside 
the  car,  together  with  their  dare-devil  assaults  upon  it,  I  was 
forced  to  swallow  the  unpalatable  pill  that  this  had  a  tendency 
to  further  infuriate  them.  In  fact,  they  were  getting  perilously 
close  to  bounding  headlong  into  the  drenched  bowels  of  the  car. 
One  of  their  number  with  bristling  hair  and  arched  back  and 
eyes  glistening  like  two  stars,  actually  leaped  upon  the  floor  of 
the  car  and  sprang  into  the  raven  blackness  of  the  night  thru  the 
opposite  door.  No  sooner  had  this  animal  leaped  from  the  car 
when  another  of  the  band,  a  black  shaggy  wolf,  grim  and  cada- 
verous as  no  mortal  ever  saw,  sprang  upon  the  floor  of  the  car 
from  without.  It  was  red  and  wavering  in  the  intermittent 
flashes  of  lightning  and  possessed  of  two  fiery,  gleaming  eyes 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


229 


that  were  bent  upon  me  with  a  horrible  fixity.  That  monstrous 
shadow  and  I  glared  at  each  other  until  my  breath  almost  went 
out.  Almost  as  quick  as  thought,  he,  too,  leaped  out  of  the  op- 
posite door  of  the  car  which  seemed  to  be  the  signal  to  the  whole 
pack  to  follow,  for  instantly  scores  of  them  dashed  thru  the  car 
and  leaped  out  the  same  way  as  the  first  mentioned,  returning 
to  the  night  and  darkness  while  I  held  a  blazing  newspaper  in 
my  hands  and  waved  it  to  and  fro  in  frantic  terror. 

I  was  between  the  Devil  and  the  deep  sea. 

The  impulse  corralled  me  to  at  least  make  a  feeble  effort  to 
close  the  doors  and  thus  become  my  own  jailer.  Under  the  condi- 
tions, I  could  not  build  a  smudge  for  the  dampness,  so  I  applied 
the  match  to  some  old  newspapers  which  I  had  used  as  ' 'Cali- 
fornia blankets."  With  this  blaze  in  my  hand,  I  passed  the 
dreaded  openings  and  tried  to  close  one  of  the  doors.  It  finally 
yielded,  and  I  drove  it  full  tilt;  but  the  remaining  door  seemed 
off  it's  trolley.  So  I  burned  the  old  papers,  inhaled  the  smoke 
and  suffered  other  discomforts  as  a  reprisal  of  freedom.  A 
thousand  ideas  percolated  thru  my  tired  brain,  and  among  these 
was  the  fact  that  I  had  read  in  some  ancient  volume  of  forgotten 
lore  that  the  rattle  of  chains  was  a  deterrent  to  hungry  wolves 
of  the  prairie  and  I  instantly  coveted  one  that  would  rattle  as 
loud  as  Apaches  on  the  war  path. 

There  was  no  way  of  reaching  the  roof  of  the  car  with  im- 
punity, and  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  obtain  waste  from  the 
journal  boxes,  so  I  kept  mumbling  to  myself  that  "eternal  vigil- 
ance is  the  price  of  liberty"  in  disconnected  monotone,  simul- 
taneously burning  the  old  newspapers  and  tossing  them  out  the 
door  of  the  car  that  refused  to  close.  The  elements  were  wrath- 
ful; the  air  quaked  with  dissonant  alarums,  and  then  it  seemed 
all  on  a  sudden  a  mighty  gust  of  wind  swept  down  upon  the 
roof,  shaking  the  car  terribly,  and  had  the  car  turned  turtle  on 
the  side  where  the  open  door  was,  I  was  a  prisoner  and  my  own 
turnkey  without  a  key.  What  would  have  happened  should  the 
car  capsize  the  other  way,  I  fear  to  speculate  upon.  Every  pos- 
sible eventuality  came  to  my  fevered  brain,  even  that  of  its  de- 
railment should  the  storm  move  it  along  the  metals  to  the  D-rail 
or  the  point  of  switching  to  the  main  line.  At  least  these  were 
prefereable  to  being  torn  to  pieces  by  the  wolves.  I  knew  no 
way  of  selling  my  liberty  except  by  the  feeble  resistence  that  a 
morphine  fiend  could  put  up  against  a  horde  of  famished  wolves, 
and  I  knew  that  should  they  once  taste  human  blood,  I  might  just 
as  well  commence  singing  "Nearer,  my  God  to  Thee!"  Who, 
but  he  who  has  actually  been  in  the  same  situation  can  conceive 
my  feelings?    Nature  is  irresistible,  and  her  workings  for  a 


230 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


while  overpowered  even  the  belief  in  my  mysterious  sentence. 
The  thought  has  terribly  returned  but  the  moment  of  energy  has 
ever  extinguished  it,  the  hurrying  and  swallowing  current  of  my 
heart  rolled  over  it  as  the  white  torrent  rushes  over  the  tomb  on 
its  brink. 

The  lightning  ceased  to  flash  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  and 
while  thick  night  was  palled  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell,  heav- 
en's  artillery  still  thundered  in  the  sky.  It  was  pitchy  night 
when  screech  owls  cry  and  ban-dogs  howl,  when  creeping  mur- 
mur and  the  poring  dark  fill  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe  and 
thru  it  all  I  heard  the  wolves  long,  hungry  howling.  Yet,  at  this 
juncture  I  began  to  conclude  that  the  wolves  had  nothing  on  me, 
for  the  reason  that  I  was  buoyed  up  by  the  drug  for  even  super- 
natural stunts  of  supererogation,  and  that  they  were  becoming 
exhausted  by  their  ceaseless  activity  and  would  perforce  of  this 
soon  desist  under  the  pressure  of  diminished  vitality. 

The  passage  of  time  was  fraught  with  an  eternity  of  dismal 
speculations  and  the  fact  of  being  myself  waterlogged,  added 
to  the  general  discomfiture  and  I  felt  the  usual  drowsiness  steal- 
ing over  me.  Nature  could  endure  it  no  longer,  my  overtaxed 
senses  gave  way,  no  doubt  superinduced  by  the  morphine,  and  a 
swoon  providentially  prevented  me  from  sinking  under  this  ter- 
rible ordeal.  From  this  state  of  insensibility  I  was  aroused  by 
feeling  a  cool  wind  blowing  upon  my  brow,  as  I  lay  there  upon 
the  husks.  I  had  dreamed  the  vivid  and  disturbing  dreams  of  the 
opium-eater.  As  a  first  Coup  d'oeil,  the  beams  of  day  percolated 
thru  the  open  door;  and  Rip  Van  Winkle  like  I  peered  into  the 
light  of  the  morning.  There  had  been  no  night's  candles  to  ex- 
tinguish and  I  greeted  in  wild  jubilee  the  crimson  dawn,  now 
as  red  as  that  which  rose  on  doomed  Carthage.  The  prospect 
round  about  was  as  clear  as  the  crystal  that  shines  within  the 
heart  of  hail,  and  the  landscape  was  aureoled  with  puddles  that 
reflected  brilliantly  under  the  beams  of  the  god  of  day.  Not  a 
ripple  agitated  their  glistening  surfaces  and  the  only  sounds 
that  reached  the  ear  were  being  made  by  the  galloping  waters  of 
the  mad  Platte  and  other  streams,  swollen  to  angry  torrents  that 
surged  their  way  in  a  riot  of  disordered  cadence  to  join  the  brim- 
ming river.  The  long,  slender  bars  of  cloud  that  were  left  in 
the  sky  floated  like  fishes  in  a  sea  of  crimson  light.  It  was  the 
unspeakable  calm  that  succeeds  the  storm.  Better  still  the  wolves 
had  vanished.    A  trouble  overcome  is  a  strength  gained. 

I  leaped  to  the  earth  and  began  to  speculate  as  to  ways  and 
means  of  .resuming  my  journey  to  the  Colorado  capital.  I  was 
on  the  line  of  one  of  the  greatest  trunk  lines  of  transcontinental 
travel,  and  surely  some  caravan  must  plow  thru  soon  as  my  eyes 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


231 


traced  the  shimmering  lines  of  steel.  Slowly  into  the  field  of 
my  vision  a  black  speck  arose  upon  the  horizon.  I  became  reck- 
less and  concluded  that  no  matter  if  the  train  was  a  money  train, 
the  overland  Mail  or  a  special,  I  wpuld  flag  it  Coute  qu'il  coute. 
Truly,  there  are  epochs  in  men's  lives  when  perils  litter  their 
pathway  in  the  face  of  which  they  will  do  things  that  appal 
the  senses  after  the  crossing  of  bridges.  In  this  instance  there 
was  no  time  for  sentimentality,  as  the  train  was  thundering  along 
and  would  pass  me  in  a  jiffy.  So  I  took  a  position  between  the 
rails  and  flaunted  my  bandana  in  restless  motion,  and  I  stopped 
only  when  I  noticed  a  marked  slackening  of  speed  in  the  great 
fortress  of  moving  steel  towering  before  me.  It  soon  came  to 
a  full  stop,  the  engine  hissing  and  sputtering  like  some  breathless 
red-hot  monster. 

It  was  the  Overland  Mail. 

On  the  steps  of  the  smoker  stood  the  conductor,  and  his 
visage  reflected  a  picture  of  dignified  astonishment.  I  passed 
him  some  guilders  to  cover  the  fare  to  Julesburg  and  stepped 
up,  the  train  began  to  move  and  I  was  seated.  As  it  gained 
momentum,  he  approached  and  asked  in  no  uncertain  esperanto : 

"Say,  old  campaigner,  do  you  know  what  the  penalty  is  for 
delaying  the  United  States  Mail? 

It  was  now  time  for  the  finest  Italian  handicraft  and  in 
speech  stripped  of  all  meretricious  finery  and  hot  off  my  brain, 
I  said  without  stuttering : 

' '  I  have,  among  others,  three  separate  reasons  to  offer :  Firsty 
self-preservation,  second,  the  preservation  of  your  life  and  the 
lives  of  passengers  because  of  weakness  of  bridges,  spreading  of 
rails  due  to  washouts  and  third,  I  have  paid  my  fare." 

"Notwithstanding,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  hand  you  over  to  the 
United  States  Marshal  at  Julesburg, ' '  said  the  conductor. 

"All  right,  sir,  I  shall  include  you  as  a  party  defendant 
with  the  railroad  company  in  a  suit  for  damages."    I  retorted. 

The  train  arrived  at  Julesburg  on  schedule  time  and  the  con- 
ductor said  to  me  in  a  tone  of  mingled  acidity  and  jest : 

"Say,  old  trapper,  on  the  level,  you  have  the  monumental 
gall,  the  sublimated  audacity,  the  transcendent  impudence,  the 
immaculate  nerve,  the  triple-plated  cheek,  the  brass  in  solid  slugs 
of  a  government  mule"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

To  which  I  replied:  "And  you  are  a  hog-tight,  dyed-in-the- 
wool,  home-knit,  all-wool,  plush-lined,  glass-blown,  nickel-plated, 
kiln-dried,  cast-iron,  6-cylinder,  gilt-edged,  copper-distilled,  bot- 
tled-in-bond,  Morocco-bound,  double-barreled,  22-carat,  rubber- 
tired,  ball-bearing,  insulated,  extralubricated,  automatic,  aged-in- 
the-wood  conductor. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXX 


A  CHLOROFORMED  JURY 


"Crack  the  lawyer's  voice, 
That  he  never  more  may  false  title  plead 
!  Nor  sound  his  quillets  shrilly." 

— Timon  of  Athens. 

The  facts  here  exhale  the  odor  of  the  bizarre,  and  this  is  my 
apology  for  embalming  them  in  the  perpetuity  of  prose.  The 
scenes  are  laid  in  Kansas — the  mother  of  fools — about  which 
state  some  wag  has  versified  that  it  is  the  land  of  the  three  S's. 
It  is  axiomatic  that  it  has  produced  more  human  freaks,  human 
jumping  jacks,  human  clowns,  human  carbuncles,  human  maver- 
icks, human  fantastics  and  museum  specimens  than  any  state, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Arkansaw.  Poets  have  sung  of 
the  hoosiers,  suckers,  pukes,  crackers  and  tar  heels  of  other  states, 
but  it  remains  for  some  writer  of  elegiac  verse  or  some  future 
Ironquill  of  poetic  fire  to  woo  the  muses  and  spin  a  paean  in  the 
elegance,  facility  and  golden  cadence  of  poesy  about  the  Kansas 
Jayhawker.  For  general  cussedness,  for  downright  orneryness, 
this  vara  avis  has  them  all  skinned.  The  commonwealth  is  in- 
fested with  a  grotesque  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  Mutts  and  Jeffs, 
punks,  lame  ducks,  cave-dwellers,  popinjays,  dingbats,  coffee- 
coolers,  pudd'n-heads,  star  gazers,  lost  chords,  back  numbers, 
simple  Simons,  callous  clods,  lunkheads,  leatherheads,  square- 
heads, bumpkins,  varlets,  gobs,  false  alarms,  sizzerbills,  alarm- 
ists, cynics,  troglodites,  moon  calves,  dunderheads,  mudheads  and 
sons  of  asses.  The  strange  things  we  see  and  the  strange  things 
we  do,  savor  of  Kansas.  Nothing  strange  can  happen  in  a  state 
that  has  given  to  the  world  such  lemons  as  has  Kansas.  It  is 
not  strange,  therefore,  that  the  women  wear  pants  and  the  men 
cultivate  green  whiskers;  where  roosters  lay  eggs  and  pigeons 
give  milk;  where  both  "wets"  and  "drys"  guzzle  Peruna  and 
Hostetter's  Bitters.  As  the  Egyptians  eat  the  sycamore  figs, 
flies  and  all,  Kansas  jayhawkers  fry  eggs  and  eat  them  with  the 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL  233 


shells  on,  and  boil  spuds  and  eat  them  skins  and  all.  Arkansas 
has  her  tow-haired  angels  of  the  swamp,  Kansas  her  tow-haired 
angels  of  the  odd.  I  am  thoroly  acquainted  with  their  life  and 
manners,  and  I  unhesitatingly  declare  that  they  are  as  odd  as 
Chinese  images. 

The  episodes  I  herein  relate  are  so  strange,  so  nearly  impos- 
sible, that  I  hesitate  to  set  them  down,  lest  the  reader  should  call 
me  untruthful  and  a  jongleur,  or  a  dreamer  of  dreams ;  neverthe- 
less they  are  told  as  they  occurred  and  the  reader  must  believe 
them  as  he  may.  But  they  are  true,  without  any  slips  of  pro- 
lixity or  crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk. 

Many  experiences  have  I  had  there  of  strangeness  and  oddity, 
and  this  one  I  unfold  for  the  first  time  in  the  frank  light  of 
publicity,  culled  from  the  vague  congregation  of  shadows  called 
the  past.  It  is  said  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  but  it  is 
because  fiction  is  obliged  to  stick  to  facts,  truth  is  not.  So,  hold 
your  horses ! 

On  an  extremely  cold  night  in  the  month  of  February  many 
years  ago,  a  collection  of  knights-errant  dropped  anchor  from 
the  bowels  of  a  possum-belly,  in  the  railroad  yards  at  Winfield, 
on  the  Southern  Kansas  line  of  the  A.  T.  &  S.  F.  Ky.  This  town 
is  what  bos  denominated  ' 'hostile,"  meaning  thereby  that  the 
nesters  there  were  inimical  to  the  event  of  bums  who  roam  about 
aimlessly.  The  bums  referred  to  constitute  that  tatterdemalian 
regiment  of  itinerants  divided  squarely  into  two  classes,  namely 
those  who  follow  it  from  the  very  fascination  of  it,  others  who 
are  driven  to  it  by  the  dark  fatalities  of  life. 

It  is  a  fact  garnered  from  long  experience  of  11  roughing  it," 
a  fact  unseen  by  the  cynics  who  look  thru  smoked  glasses,  like 
scurvy  politicians,  that  good  men  take  to  the  rods,  trucks,  pos- 
sum bellies,  brake-beams  and  side-door  Pullmans  to  slay  distance, 
and  this  is  a  distress  of  social  inequality  and  injustice.  For  this 
condition,  since  we  cannot  reform  it,  let  us  revenge  ourselves  by 
railing  at  it,  and  fix  the  cause  upon  the  system.  For  in  this  age 
of  refrigerated  commercialism,  where  wealth  accumulates  and 
men  decay;  where  abject  privation  mingles  with  boundless  lux- 
ury ;  where  the  poor  work  like  the  helots  of  heathen  antiquity, 
living  under  the  yoke  of  oppression,  and  where  the  born  bonds- 
man lingers  out  life  in  thankless  toil;  where  gross  materialism 
with  an  excess  of  wealth  and  squalid  poverty  as  its  extremes, 
rank  injustice,  and  oppression,  dirt,  disease  and  crime  exist,  it 
is  not  surprising  that  an  uneven  distribution  of  the  loaves  and 
fishes  exists,  and  that  the  paradise  of  the  rich  is  made  out  of  the 
hell  of  the  poor.  I  cannot  stand  up  against  the  voice  of  univer- 
sal man  which  has  cried  out  that  thus  it  shall  be,  but  when  so- 


234 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


ciety  shall  have  progressed  as  far  as  to  reach  a  common  level, 
then  earth  will  be  a  paradise,  one  nation  and  one  blood. 

On  the  February  night  referred  to,  the  whole  country  was 
blizzard  driven.  The  February  storms  had  pitched  their  tents. 
The  mercury  froze  in  December  and  didn't  thaw  out  until  the 
following  March.  The  wind  blew  as  if  it  had  blown  its  last.  A 
fearful  north  blast  had  swept  down  from  off  the  icy  plains  of 
Manitoba  and  which  in  turn  came  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  sub- 
Arctic  laterals,  like  an  inroad  of  trumpets  and  enveloped  the 
middle  West  in  a  swirling  snow-cloud.  The  country  was  piled 
high  with  glittering  drifts,  traffic  was  materially  stopped  and 
the  walks  had  been  swept  bare  by  the  biting  blast. 

The  bums  with  empty  pockets  spotted  a  pile  of  dry  ties  on 
the  right  of  way  and  this  was  at  once  made  a  pyre  for  the  flames. 
A  smudge  was  applied  and  soon  the  whole  was  in  a  blaze  which 
irradiated  the  heat.  This  soon  warmed  up  the  corporal  agents 
and  the  shivering  thews.  Reducing  this  to  embers,  the  brands 
were  carried  to  still  another  pile  of  ties,  and  while  the  same  was 
glowing  with  heat,  the  bums  were  rudely  "pinched"  en  bloc,  by 
the  town  hangman  and  a  railroad  "bull,"  and  the  word  was 
authoritatively  given  to  "line  up."  A  dozen  noses  were  counted 
and  this  apostolic  number  proved  a  charm. 

In  the  meantime  the  fire  had  spread  to  two  buildings  of  the 
railroad  company  which  were  readily  licked  up  by  the  flames, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  heroic  work  of  the  citizens  of  Win- 
field,  the  railroad  depot  would  have  been  destroyed. 

The  bums  languished  over  night  in  the  county  bandhouse, 
and  on  the  following  morning  the  bunch  was  conducted  before 
the  village  burgess  charged  with  criminal  trespass,  malicious  mis- 
chief, arson,  and  a  dragnet  of  other  depredations  as  long  as  the 
moral  code.  After  the  information  had  been  read  and  pleas  of 
not  guilty  entered,  I  solemnly  announced  to  Justice  Shallow  that 
I  was  a  barrister  in  good  repute  before  the  Supreme  Court  bar, 
and  that  altho'  I  was  at  that  particular  moment  slightly  dis- 
figured by  fickle  fate,  I  still  had  a  good  fight  left  in  me,  and  I 
announced  my  purpose  of  conducting  the  defense  single  handed, 
and  demanded  that  the  twelve  bums  be  tried  without  a  sever- 
ance and  forthwith  demanded  a  jury  of  peers.  My  manner  here 
must  have  borne  the  impress  of  freedom  from  simulation  for  this 
Justice  of  the  ten-pound  court  recognized  me  and  certified  the 
proceedings  to  the  District  Court  of  the  county  then  in  session. 
During  the  night  I  prepared  our  defense,  and  rested  up  after 
a  period  of  hardships  as  a  rambling  rake  of  poverty  upon  the 
geographical  gravel. 

The  criminal  information  which  was  filed  direct  in  this  court 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


235 


represented  that  the  property  damage  amounted  to  $30,000  and 
it  was  by  reason  of  this  glaring  fact  that  the  cause  was  advanced 
on  the  criminal  calendar,  as  it  seemed  evidently  the  aim  of  the 
railroad  company's  counsel  to  "railroad"  the  bums.  Promptly 
at  nine  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  the  chain  gang  was 
conducted  into  court  and  from  a  venire  facias  a  jury  was  struck 
and  the  trial  proceeded.  The  prosecution  introduced  its  evi- 
dence and  * '  rested. ' '  Altho '  lawyerlike,  I  admitted  nothing,  yet 
it  was  quite  patent  to  the  most  rubified  yap  that  we  were  guilty 
as  charged  and  being  in  the  enemy 's  country,  the  single  thing  re- 
mained was  an  impassioned  and  sympathetic  exhortation  to  the 
men  in  the  box  in  order  to  evoke  a  popular  judgment  of  the  gods ; 
altho'  it  seemed  that  there  was  no  more  mercy  in  that  jury  of 
Kansas  nesters  than  there  is  milk  in  a  male  tiger,  and  I  could 
neither  hope  to  convince  or  persuade. 

The  County  Attorney  opened  for  the  State,  and  in  an  ex- 
haustive presentation  demanded  conviction.  He  unmasked  bat- 
teries of  legal  authority  which  were  paralyzing.  His  introduc- 
tion was  masterly,  his  exordium  profound.  He  was  followed  by 
the  divisional  counsel  who  had  been  hastily  summoned  from 
Wichita,  and  this  gentleman  in  an  address  of  great  elaboration, 
thundered  in  speech  and  asked  for  the  blood  of  the  bums  in  no 
uncertain  diction.  His  speech  was  crowded  with  such  startling 
imagery,  ambitiously  marshalled  in  lines  of  such  lurid  impres- 
siveness  that  it  would  bewilder  the  aesthetic  sensibility  of  a 
Titan. 

Up  to  this  stage  it  seemed  that  the  situation  required  the  ap- 
plication of  a  very  sulphurous  match  to  the  bomb-proof  cred- 
ulity of  the  jury.  As  a  forensic  orator,  I  leaped  into  the  arena, 
full-armed,  like  Minerva  from  the  brain  of  Jove  and  applied  the 
match.  In  this  I  was  amply  fortified,  as  the  lynx-eyed  hawk- 
shaws  of  the  law  neglected  to  find  my  dope  kit,  and  just  before 
entering  the  court  room,  I  shot  a  full  syringeful  of  morphine  and 
cocoaine  into  myself  in  the  bull-pen. 

In  behalf  of  the  defendants  I  opened  by  announcing  the  time- 
honored  doctrine  of  self-preservation,  and  I  depicted  in  lurid 
language  the  zero  weather,  the  prevailing  blizzard — and  the 
actual  fact  that  the  mercury  registered  thirty  degrees  below 
the  point ;  that  the  bums  were  habited  in  mosquito  bar  garments, 
and  that  thus  the  weather  was  not  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb. 
I  declared  that  birds  had  their  nests,  foxes  their  holes,  but  that 
the  sons  of  men  had  no  place  whereon  to  lay  their  heads  and  must 
wander  wearily  and  bruise  their  feet  and  drink  wine  with  salt 
tears.  I  delved  in  disputable  and  indisputable  presumptions 
and  urged  with  relentless  logic  America  for  Americans,  and  the 


236 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


constitutional  freedom  of  travel.  The  Holy  Bible  was  quoted 
about  Heaven's  manna  and  the  parable  of  Elijah  and  the  ravens, 
and  other  references  which  would  appeal  to  the  hardshell  Bap- 
tist, the  Howling  Methodist,  the  Dunkard  and  the  worshippers 
of  Baal.  I  urged  that  in  any  aspect  of  the  case,  necessity  would 
have  provoked  the  breaking  of  laws,  human  and  divine,  and  I 
begged  them  to  take  the  matter  to  their  fireside  hearts  and  decide 
the  issue,  assuming  that  the  twelve  bums  were  their  own  sons. 
Would  they  suffer  them  to  freeze  when  an  opulent  corporation 
had  not  only  money  but  wood  to  burn  under  the  conditions  ?  As 
well  might  one  place  before  a  hungry  nigger  a  bowl  of  clam  soup, 
and  expect  him  to  cast  it  to  one  side  or  cloy  the  hungry  appetite 
by  the  bare  imagination  of  a  feast !  During  an  hour 's  degladia- 
tion,  studded  with  adjective-starred  panegyric,  (opium-engend- 
ered, of  course)  I  congratulated  this  jury  upon  its  intelligence 
and  upon  its  conception  of  fair  play  to  the  under  dog,  (which 
was  a  forced  put  with  me,)  and  finally  even  admitting  the  truth 
set  out  in  the  indictment,  the  soulless  Santa  Fe  could  well  afford 
to  sacrifice  the  rotten  timbers  in  a  cause  of  human  woe,  and  this 
latter  was  the  sharpest  reason  that  I  urged  to  defeat  the  law  and 
make  the  ugly  deed  look  fair.  I  talked  to  that  jury  of  Kansas 
sizzerbills,  brawny,  sunburnt  men  in  leather  hobnails,  until  my 
collar  wilted  on  this  February  day.  At  last,  indulging  in  a  per- 
oration in  which  I  injected  a  torrent  of  rhetoric,  interspersed 
with  felicitous  phrase,  glittering  generalities,  figures  of  imagery, 
melodious  trifles  and  grand-stand  spellbinding,  I  prayed  ac- 
quittal. I  reasoned  with  myself  that  I  was  certainly  casting 
pond  lilies  to  razorbacks,  but  in  consideration  of  the  climax,  the 
end  justified  the  means.  The  jury  followed  my  discourse  as  the 
heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon.  A  feather  was 
never  so  lightly  blown  to  and  fro  as  this  jury  of  Kansas  punks. 
There  must  have  been  something  irresistibly  conclusive  in  my 
logic  for  I  was  applauded  to  the  echo,  shown  in  the  interchange 
of  glances  and  in  answering  smiles. 

There  were  twelve  bums  and  there  were  twelve  jurors.  I 
do  not  ask  the  reader  to  believe  the  declaration  following,  unless 
he  be  free  from  Pythonism  concerning  incredible  coincidences. 
So  far  as  I  myself  am  concerned  I  may  say  that  I  have  always 
believed  in  the  doctrine  of  chance,  commonly  known  as  the  Cal- 
culus of  Probabilities,  and  I  felt  sure  that  at  this  stage  of  the 
trial  all  in  the  court  room  were  prepared  for  a  verdict  of  guilty, 
and  yet  in  all  legal  investigations  there  may  be  what  is  called 
an  unaccountable  verdict,  and  for  the  philosophical  investigator 
ipsraxq  puii  puiOM  aq  sojojajoqAV  aq;  pui?  SiCqM  oq;  urec^ose  o; 
much  like  the  gazink  who  set  about  to  solve  the  Baconian  theory 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


237 


who  was  likened  to  one  who  left  the  well  paved  streets  of  a  mod- 
ern city,  and  in  journeying  along  came  to  a  country  road,  which 
brought  him  successively  to  a  lane,  a  cow-path,  a  squirrel  track 
and  finally  up  a  tree;  or  possibly  like  the  geekerino  who  knew 
he  was  lost  in  the  woods,  because  he  had  been  describing  that 
mysterious  and  hopeless  circle  familiar  to  those  in  such  straits. 
This  is  the  dictum  of  a  certain  Kansas  Justice  who  believed  that 
justice  was  unevenly  balanced :  "On  the  whole  justice  is  done, 
for,  while  many  cases  go  to  the  defendant  that  should  have  gone 
to  the  plaintiff,  an  equal  number  go  to  the  defendant  that  should 
have  gone  to  the  plaintiff."  For  what  really  occurred  in  this 
case,  it  was  quite  impossible  that  any  of  the  Kansas  moon  calves 
could  have  been  prepared.  It  was  one  of  those  surprises  that 
one  meets  up  with  round  the  corner  of  the  street  of  life  and  bear- 
ing this  in  mind,  I  will  always  believe  that  this  was  a  chloro- 
formed jury. 

The  bald  fact  remains  to  be  recorded  that  at  twelve  minutes 
to  twelve  o  'clock  as  I  watched  the  face  of  that  clock  in  the  solemn 
court  room  on  the  twelfth  day  of  February,  and  within  twelve 
minutes  after  the  jury  had  retired  to  deliberate  on  the  issues, 
this  jury  returned  into  court  and  announced  a  verdict  of  "not 
guilty." 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  are  excused,"  said  the  judge, 
bowing  to  them  in  his  usual  Draconian  sternness. 

"Hear  ye !  hear  ye  !"  roared  the  tipstaff.  "All  persons  hav- 
ing business  with  the  court  held  in  and  for  Cowley  County  will 
now  depart.  This  court  stands  adjourned  until  tomorrow  morn- 
ing at  half -past  nine  o'clock." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


SLIPPING  ONE  OVER  ON  THE  JUDGE 


"The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained." — The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

In  the  pursuit  of  a  vagrant  itinerary  across  the  continent 
from  the  Pacific  sands,  I  dismounted  and  found  myself  before 
the  gilded  windows  of  a  local  saloon,  unannounced  by  any  flam- 
ing scareheads  on  the  dead  walls  of  Jimtown,  New  York.  The 
breeze  that  blew  me  into  this  burg  was  one  of  the  kindest  that 
ever  stirred  my  weathered  sails.  The  trip  itself  was  being  prose- 
cuted by  easy  relays,  the  whole  characterized  by  uninterrupted 
enjoyment  in  wine  and  a  passionate  enslavement  to  the  cursed 
elixir  that  sweetened  my  blood,  so  much  so,  that  upon  my  arrival 
in  the  Chautauqua  town,  I  was  so  gilded  with  grand  ale  that  I 
feared  not  fly-blowing.  Dope  and  rum  do  not  act  in  harmony, 
and  while  one  is  surcharged  with  this  union,  he  is  liable  to  be 
thrown  into  a  state  of  Amnesia  in  the  state  of  New  York.  A 
state  of  Aphasia  is  usually  succeeded  by  a  state  of  Amnesia  in 
the  said  state  of  New  York,  and  while  in  this  state  I  was  rudely 
thrown  into  the  bowels  of  the  bridewell.  It  must  certainly  have 
been  Aphasia,  for  I  harbor  not  even  a  bromidic  idea  of  the  mat- 
ters and  things  appertaining  to  my  hectic  career  immediately 
preceding  my  arrest  by  the  village  executioner.  This  unit  of  the 
constabulary  afterwards  informed  me  that  I  offended  all  sense 
of  order  by  impetuous  zigzags  and  unexpected  halts,  which 
brought  me  into  collision  with  peaceful  boulevardiers  as  they 
catapulted  along.  I  therefore  must  have  left  my  sea  legs  at 
home,  wherever  that  was. 

In  order  to  satisfy  the  outraged  majesty  of  the  blind  deity, 
I  was  without  benefit  of  clergy,  consigned  to  the  city  tombs.  I 
was  frisked  of  all  personal  property  except  the  morphia  layout, 
and  this  I  had  securely  sewed  into  an  improvised  scabbard  of  my 
under  flummery,  free  from  the  fingers  of  pragmatic  authority. 
I  really  had  secreted  in  this  recess  enough  morphine  and  cocaine 
to  send  a  regiment  of  infantry  to  the  murky  shades  of  the  Sty- 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


239 


gian  river,  and  my  name,  Hiram  Skinner  from  Bingville  Centre, 
was  entered  on  the  police  blotter,  like  Caesar's  wife,  "above 
suspicion. ' '  And  when  one  soberly  reflects  what  means  of  death 
and  destruction  I  had  upon  my  person  which  escaped  the  eternal 
vigilance  of  the  rustic  "bulls,"  calm  surprise  is  succeeded  by 
petrified  wonder. 

In  the  tombs  I  was  overpowered  by  the  joint  dominion  of  the 
gods  of  alcohol  and  narcotism,  and  these  anodynes  brought  sur- 
cease and  steeped  my  senses  in  soft  and  delicate  Lethe.  It  was 
not  a  dreamless  sleep,  yet  it  was  as  sweet  as  the  slumbering 
Amaryllis.  I  dreamed  all  dream  that  light,  the  alchemist,  has 
wrought  from  dust  and  dew,  and  stored  within  the  slumbrous 
poppy's  subtle  blood.  I  viewed  numberless  buildings  of  the 
most  regal  designs  which  rose  about  me ;  the  walls  of  some  mag- 
nificent interior  were  covered  with  sculptures  of  the  most  ex- 
traordinary richness.  On  the  exterior  I  rode  in  a  barouche 
where  noble  statues  lined  the  public  ways,  and  where  wealth  in 
the  wildest  profusion  was  visible  all  about;  endless  ranges  of 
porphyry  and  alabaster  columns  glittered  in  the  noonday  sun. 
Superb  ascents  of  marble  steps  mounted  before  me  to  heights 
that  strained  the  eye ;  arch  on  arch  studded  with  the  lustre  of 
precious  stones  climbed  until  they  lay  like  rainbows  in  the  sky ; 
colossal  towers  circling  with  successive  colonnades  of  dazzling 
brightness  ascended — airy  citadels  looking  down  upon  earth,  and 
tinctured  with  the  infinite  dyes  and  lustres  of  the  clouds.  Of 
that  beautiful  painting  to  the  ear,  music,  I  heard  an  echo.  This 
chant  ascending  with  a  native  richness,  floated  upward  like  a 
cloud  of  incense,  bearing  the  inspiration  of  holiness  and  grati- 
tude to  the  throne  of  Him,  whom  man  hath  not  seen  nor  can  see — ■ 
harmonies  that  transported  the  spirit  beyond  the  cares  and  pas- 
sions of  a  troubled  world. 

From  this  dream  I  awoke  in  a  chimera,  my  excretory  organs 
at  high  pressure.  The  locale  of  my  imprisonment  was  at  once 
told  me  by  a  cursory  inspection  of  the  surroundings.  As  I  looked 
about  I  thought  of  Patrick  Henry's  liberty  or  death,  and  its 
force  descended  upon  me  with  thundering  emphasis.  Recollec- 
tion came  to  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  been  drunk  and  dis- 
orderly and  had  refused  to  fight,  and  that  therefore  I  was  as 
culpable  as  sin  itself.  As  a  penance,  I  might  be  visited  with 
swift  and  inexorable  penalties  and  these  might  carry  with  them 
denial  of  the  drug,  and  I  would  perchance  become  a  helpless 
morphinomaniac  in  the  throes  of  intellectual  torpor  and  physical 
collapse,  a  living  death  in  a  living,  breathing  hell. 

The  situation  was  both  tense  and  critical. 

I  therefore  set  to  work  and  rummaged  thru  the  dismal  cran- 


240 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


nies  of  my  brain  to  concoct  some  moral  defense  to  spring  to  the 
court  at  the  morning  line-up;  because  pro  confesso,  there  re- 
mained no  legal  one.  I  must  depend  upon  some  subtle,  Machi- 
avelian  defense.  I  accordingly  concluded  to  make  a  sympath- 
etic appeal,  a  strong  oratorical  effort  and  a  high,  emotional  ex- 
hortation. I  would  indulge  in  the  flimsiest  sophistries,  to  bam- 
boozle the  court  with  blarney  and  palaver.  I  proposed  to  stab 
truth  in  the  dark,  and  this  slaughter  of  the  gold  coin  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  would  be  compatible  with  the  settled  doctrine  that 
untruth  is  the  inevitable  attendant  of  morphia.  At  the  same 
time  I  knew  that  altho'  truth  is  a  good  dog,  one  must  beware  of 
barking  too  close  to  the  heels  of  an  error,  lest  one  gets  one's 
brains  knocked  out. 

There  was  a  line-up  next  morning  representing  a  miscellane- 
ous assembly  of  frowsy,  disreputable  bums,  together  with  a  bunch 
of  morally  submerged  fleusies,  and  strange  to  say  the  name  of 
Hiram  Skinner  was  the  first  called. 

I  rose  to  the  psychology  of  the  occasion,  and  was  well  forti- 
fied for  it,  for  had  I  not  injected  twenty  grains  of  morphia  into 
my  blood  circulation  just  a  moment  before  in  the  seclusion  of  my 
cell?   I'll  say  so. 

To  the  Court  I  frankly  acknowledged  my  lapse  from  ortho- 
dox grace.  It  was  my  first  offense  in  Jimtown.  And  it  was  a 
mere  peccadillo  at  that.  And  further,  I  was  at  the  very  time  on 
a  holy  mission — to  see  my  four  helpless  children  at  the  moment 
writhing  in  the  terrible  throes  of  smallpox  in  the  detention  hos- 
pital in  Buffalo.  It  was  an  unholy  lie,  and  I  will  swear  to  it. 
I  told  the  Judge  a  ready,  fair  and  pleasing  lie  of  the  very  larg- 
est size.  This  falsehood  wore  the  garb  of  truth,  and  I  sang  a 
solo  with  grandiose  volubility  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  and 
I  said  that  if  the  Court  had  any  fairies  in  his  home,  he  knew  the 
rest.  The  judicial  heart  might  be  some  times  like  unto  strings 
of  steel ;  let  it  in  this  instance  be  as  soft  as  the  sinews  of  a  new- 
born babe.  If  the  Court  did  not  believe  me,  let  the  great  axe 
fall,  let  the  gods  be  ready  with  all  their  thunderbolts;  let  the 
phial  of  the  court's  vengeance  pour  upon  my  head  and  the  con- 
demnation of  the  fates  descend  even  upon  my  life.  But  that  if 
there  be  yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity  as  a  wren's 
eye,  mete  it  out.  I  swore  that  after  this  debauch  to  have  the  top 
of  my  pewter  mug  roofed  over  and  forever  sealed.  Thus,  trum- 
pet tongued,  I  pleaded  for  freedom. 

My  smooth  words  must  have  bewitched  the  court's  heart. 

A  man's  voice  is  sometimes  his  fortune. 

In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt,  but  being  seasoned 
with  a  gracious  voice,  obscures  the  show  of  evil ! 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


241 


I  might  have  spared  my  arithmetic,  however. 

The  Court  seemed  perceptibly  agitated  by  my  pompous  and 
illuminating  phraseology,  and  wiped  the  judicial  goggles.  He 
then  looked  me  squarely  in  the  eye  like  the  ancient  mariner,  and 
delivered  his  dictum  with  slow  and  implacable  deliberation.  He 
told  me  that  my  conduct  according  to  my  own  ipse  dixit  was 
heathenish,  and  added  that  my  offense  was  an  infraction  of  the 
highest  ordinances  in  the  code  of  domestic  relations.  I  was  ex- 
coriated in  a  tirade  of  caustic  philippics  and  roasted  on  the 
griddle  of  judicial  condemnation.  But,  after  all,  I  readily  saw 
that  it  was  a  play  to  the  galleries,  and  any  looker  on  in  Vienna 
would  be  similarly  impressed — that  it  was  a  veil  used  to  smother 
his  paternal  affection — a  lever  utilized  to  keep  back  the  tears. 
I  could  see  imaged  in  the  Court's  brain  the  picture  of  his  own 
flaxen-haired  babies  swinging  on  the  gate  waiting  for  the  Judge. 
And  therefore,  while  the  Court's  opinion  was  tinged  with  Hom- 
eric gravity,  it  was  interspersed  with  caustic  humor  and  stinging 
epigrams. 

I  had  seen  the  under  side  of  the  cards. 

From  him  who  sees  much  that  is  hidden,  plain  things  are 
sometimes  veiled. 

Having  perforce  nurtured  some  feeble  adumbrations  of  the 
judge's  actions,  I  mentally  congratulated  myself  upon  a  speedy 
ticket-of -leave,  but  even  here  I  was  tempted  to  smile  at  my  bare- 
faced sophistry.  Of  course,  when  the  holy  water  of  the  Court 
was  sprinkled,  I  was  not  surprised. 

"You  are  discharged.  Call  Peter  Jimjam,  alias  Pennsyl- 
vania Slim. ' ' 

In  my  haste  to  enjoy  freedom  again,  I  had  forgotten  to  claim 
certain  documents  and  a  few  oboluses,  and  I  returned  to  the  city 
hall  to  get  them,  and  superveniently  encountered  the  old  judge 
in  the  rotunda.  Here  we  rehearsed  the  whole  matter  about  the 
babies  until  he  got  black  and  I  got  red,  in  the  face.  But  in  a 
final  farewell,  he  clasped  my  hand  overcome  with  emotion,  and 
as  he  did  so,  he  glued  to  its  palm  a  $20  bill. 

Upon  boarding  an  interurban  car  going  north  a  few  minutes 
after  this,  I  laconically  remarked  to  the  conductor:  "Put  me 
off  at  Buffalo." 

The  face  is  the  mirror  of  the  soul. 

And  what  but  the  mind  forms  the  countenance? 

So  intricate  is  the  connection  between  soul  and  body  that 
every  emotion  is  painted  upon  the  surface  of  that  crystal  mirror, 
the  human  countenance. 

The  conductor  was  absorbed  at  this  intimation,  and  critically 
scrutinized  my  face  to  discover  some  suspicion  of  sarcasm  de- 


242 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


picted  thereon.  I  could  not  blame  him,  for  had  he  known  of  the 
"job"  that  I  put  up  on  the  judge,  he  would  have  put  me  off  at 
Hades,  if  this  were  a  station  on  his  line. 

The  old  judge  never  knew  that  I  was  at  the  time  inextricably 
bound  in  the  vassalage  of  narcotism,  and  I  hope  that  he  will 
never  know,  but  it  was  necessary  that  I  perpetrate  this  bluff  to 
be  saved  from  a  living  death  in  a  living  hell,  or  what  is  worse,  a 
status  of  involutional  insanity.  The  tale  here  told  is  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  that  morphine  fiends  are  capable  of  framing 
up  on  the  devil  himself.  The  episode  has  no  merit  except  this 
and  without  which  it  would  have  no  conclusion. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 


"Trifles  light  as  air 
^re    *    *    *    confirmation  strong 
As  proofs  of  Holy  Writ." 

— Othello. 

To  quote  the  example  of  Thoreau,  circumstantial  evidence  is 
occasionally  convincing;  as  when  we  find  a  fish  in  the  milk. 

Men  have  been  hanged  on  this  character  of  testimony,  and 
wholesale  convictions  have  been  predicated  upon  its  sufficiency. 
The  danger  from  the  elastic  nature  of  circumstantial  evidence 
to  wanderers  who  rotate  from  place  to  place  in  aimless  meanders, 
has  played  upon  the  theater  of  philosophical  minds  for  ages,  and 
no  remedy  has  ever  been  schemed  out  to  cure  the  mistakes  of  this 
class  of  proof  when  a  wanderer  is  caught  unjustly,  except  the 
possibile  remedy  of  damages.  But  damages  do  not  turn  the 
hands  of  the  clock  back,  and  they  do  little  to  appease  the  anguish 
and  bitterness  of  a  lacerated  heart.  And  as  for  the  stigma,  it  is 
never  removed. 

Judges  and  lawyers  well  know  that  any  number  of  bare  sus- 
picions do  not  even  approach  the  worth  of  a  single  legal  proof, 
and  yet  men  are  hanged  on  a  mere  suspicion  or  by  reason  of 
prejudice.  In  the  vast  mosaic  of  events,  every  transaction  is  a 
piece.  Its  borders  are  infinitely  irregular,  and  thus  it  would 
seem  that  no  mistake  could  possibly  be  made.  Yet  the  records 
disclose  instances  of  innocent  men  having  undergone  vicarious 
atonement,  not  like  Damon  of  old,  but  as  a  result  of  circumstan- 
tial evidence.  On  the  other  hand,  real  culprits  have  escaped 
criminal  penalties  by  and  thru  an  event  arbitrarily  created  by 
a  human  agent,  or  by  some  explanation  or  theory  arbitrarily 
created  to  explain  a  certain  sequence  of  events  fabricated  for  the 
purpose. 

Verily,  there  are  at  times  evil  blasts  and  heroic  blasts  that 
come  over  the  souls  of  men! 


244 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


I  escaped  hanging  once  by  coolly  walking  into  a  county  jail. 
It  happened  in  this  wise. 

Indulgence  in  the  wine  Medea  brewed,  bringing  about  the 
many  physical  and  mental  havocs  attendant  thereupon,  con- 
signed me  one  April  evening  to  an  early  bed  in  a  rooming  house 
in  Albuquerque,  New  Mexico.  From  this  drunken  slumber,  I 
awoke  about  the  holy  hour,  deluged  by  a  hive  of  bad  thoughts. 
Being  ungovernably  thirsty,  I  drank  cold  water  with  unbridled 
avidity.  Acting  upon  a  passing  impulse,  I  left  the  house  to  seek 
the  coolness  of  the  night  air,  and  to  lave  my  grimy  skin  in  bap- 
tismal waters.  A  brief  ramble  brought  me  to  a  stream  of  water, 
and  here  I  took  a  "shot"  of  morphine  and  bathed  my  head  in 
the  stream. 

While  so  indulging  I  heard  behind  me  the  rythmic  tramp  of  a 
body  of  men  on  the  gravel,  a  sharp  voice  of  command,  and  then 
after  a  brief  pause,  the  heavy  multiple  tramp  again  resounding 
thru  the  stillness  louder  and  louder  in  its  approach.  The  moon 
being  stripped  of  her  misty  vestiture,  I  was  able  to  discern  that 
the  company  was  rapidly  approaching  in  my  direction.  I  saw 
something  coiled  round  the  arm  of  one  of  the  party.  It  was  a 
rope.  Coming  within  a  few  feet  of  me  with  leveled  carbines, 
one  of  them,  evidently  the  herdsman  of  the  beastly  plebeians, 
ordered  me  to  hold  up  my  hands.  This  command  was  like  a  cold 
shower,  but  nevertheless  the  hands  went  aloft.  I  felt  like  a  man 
who  had  first  gone  blind,  and  then  seen  hell.  My  person  was 
then  systematically  searched  for  cannons.  The  order  was  then 
given  "Right  about  face"  and  the  whole  party  commenced  a 
deep  throbbing  thru  the  silence  of  the  night,  the  track  from 
there  to  the  county  hoosgow  being  coursed  and  trodden  by  a  mul- 
titude of  swiftly  tramping  feet.  In  this  bull-pen  I  was  bottled 
with  a  dozen  others  whose  detention  was  predicated  upon  a 
cabalistic  murder  committed  some  few  days  before,  and  to  these 
suspects  I  was  added. 

Suspicion,  with  its  slimy  head,  was  in  the  air. 

Half  an  hour  after  my  incarceration,  the  jail  door  was  opened 
and  two  "greasers"  were  called  out.  I  found  out  afterwards, 
that  owing  to  provincial  prejudice  against  the  garlic-smelling 
"greasers,"  the  angry  crowd  hungered  for  a  propitiatory  sacri- 
fice and  here  was  presented  their  game.  They  were  accordingly 
sentenced  to  be  offered  up  to  Baal.  The  mob  then  carried  out 
the  infernal  ceremonial,  the  detestable  orgy  of  cracking  the 
"greasers'  "  necks  just  outside  the  prison  walls.  I  distinctly 
heard  the  "greasers"  exclaim  "Ora  pro  nobis,  sancta  homines, 
pax  vobiscum."  After  this  the  dislocation  of  necks  succeeded, 
and  this  was  accompanied  by  the  usual  dull,  sickening  thuds  and 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


245 


all  was  again  still.  This  was  lawlessness  curbed  under  the  rude 
mantle  of  frontier  justice. 

Regardless  of  the  exciting  moments  just  passed,  I  slept 
soundly  under  the  influence  of  the  morphine,  and  I  had  neither 
figures  nor  fantasies  which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men. 
Thruout  I  was  a  clam  with  shell  closed.  I  knew  that  timid  dogs 
bark  loudest,  and  kept  my  own  counsel.  And  then  none  of  them 
knew  that  I  was  actually  Jack  the  Kisser,  and  I  knew  that 
murder  will  sometimes  speak  out  of  stone  walls. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  I  was  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  specu- 
lations, and  I  comforted  these  emotions  with  the  knowledge  that 
I  was  in  fact  a  murderer  and  that  the  victim  was  no  other  than 
myself;  for  was  I  not  assassinating  my  body  and  soul  by  the 
wanton  use  of  honeyed  drugs? 

What  defense  had  I  against  the  insuperable  circumstance  of 
suspicion  in  this  case  ? 

Yet  I  had  been  so  many  times  within  sight  of  the  rope  and 
all  other  expeditious  modes  of  paying  the  only  debt  I  ever  intend 
to  pay,  and  that  only  because  it  is  the  last,  that  I  cared  as  little 
about  the  venture  as  any  broken  gambler  about  his  last  coin. 

During  the  early  morning  a  party  of  the  sheriff's  office  ar- 
rived at  the  jail,  and  this  party  conducted  me  to  a  room  behind 
grilled  doors.  It  was  a  sort  of  a  " sunrise  court,"  a  "star- 
chamber"  proceeding.  Here  I  was  to  be  subjected  to  the  grilling 
and  gruelling  of  the  1 '  third  degree. ' '  It  was  a  proceeding  calcu- 
lated to  winnow  the  canker  worm  of  truth  from  falsehood.  In  a 
game  of  cards,  it  counts  to  play  the  right  card  at  the  right  time, 
and  in  this  instance  I  utilized  the  indefinable,  the  exquisite,  the 
extremely  delicate  quality,  difficult  to  define,  hard  to  cultivate, 
but  absolutely  indispensable  to  one  about  to  turn  a  trick,  of  tact. 
The  situation  was  clearly  one  where  it  was  freely  translated, 
"When  a  feller  needs  a  friend."  I  therefore  begged  permission 
to  administer  to  myself  a  usual  dose  of  medication,  as  I  was  a 
dope  fiend,  body  and  soul.  I  told  them  that  it  would  give  a 
fillip  to  my  jaded  sensibilities.  As  Archimedes  wanted  a  lever, 
so  I  wanted  those  sullen-blooming  poppies — those  scarlet  heralds 
of  eternal  sleep — some  slumbrous  anodyne  for  wasted  lives,  for 
lingering  wretchedness.  The  suggestion  was  duly  winked  at, 
whereupon  I  extricated  from  a  secret  recess  of  my  duds  the  mor- 
phine layout  scabbarded  there.  This  is  one  of  the  ruses  adopted 
by  dope  fiends  to  circumvent  the  possibility  of  detection  of  the 
dope  paraphernalia.  Affecting  that  I  was  suffering  from  and 
writhing  in  the  clutch  of  the  horror  of  lustful  nerves,  with  my 
drug-tremulous  fingers  I  prepared  a  "shot"  of  about  fifteen 
grains,  and  this  I  injected  into  the  marble  rind  of  my  left  leg. 


246 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


In  two  minutes  the  little  clutch  at  my  midriff  told  me  that  the 
morphine  was  at  work.  The  sheriff's  party  stared  with  repul- 
sion at  the  countless  purplish  knots  surrounding  the  point  of 
incision.  They  represented  great  serpent-like  marks  of  tattoo 
engrossed  upon  my  cuticle.  My  arms  and  legs  bore  a  mighty 
maze,  a  pictorial  web  of  blue  myth  and  marvel.  It  was  a  veri- 
table skin  tattoo,  and  besides  this  I  exhaled  a  peculiar  drug-like 
odor  which  all  together  confirmed  my  assertion  of  chronic 
addiction. 

The  " third  degree"  involved  an  ineffectual  examination  as 
to  my  personal  movements  and  actions  immediately  preceding 
my  advent  to  Albuquerque.  It  might  have  involved  a  severe 
shaking  of  my  person  in  order  to  precipitate  the  truth  by  specific 
gravity.  Yet  they  went  thru  a  test  of  a  very  searching  character 
up  to  a  certain  time,  and  that  time  was  when  I  told  them  that  I 
loved  the  name  of  honor  more  than  I  feared  death,  and  would 
tell  the  truth,  even  if  it  shamed  His  Excellency  the  Devil  him- 
self. And  all  of  my  contentions  were  reinforced  by  the  exhibi- 
tion of  documentary  exhibits,  which  did  not  complete  the  circle 
of  identification,  together  with  a  copy  of  the  New  Testament, 
which  I  invariably  carried  as  a  bluff.  This  seemed  to  the  party 
as  of  higher  evidential  value  than  anything  else,  and  the  pre- 
sumption that  the  Indian  sign  was  on  me,  was  removed. 

After  leaving  the  jail,  I  walked  along  the  outside  and  I  saw 
the  bodies  of  two  ' ' greasers"  dangling  from  an  electric  elevated 
support. 

A  mob  is  an  unreasoning  element;  it  is  a  chance-blown  con- 
vention of  destructionists,  as  savagely  brainless  as  a  pack  of 
timber  wolves.  They  are  the  fool  and  barbarous  multitude,  the 
canaille,  the  rabble ;  they  are  alcaldes  and  jurors  alike ;  and  had 
it  not  been  for  the  part  played  by  the  poison,  I  might  have  had 
trouble  with  my  necktie  or  been  bowstrung  like  the  duo  of 
"greasers."  In  view  of  the  fact  that  a  mob's  inclination  is  to 
act  first  and  reflect  later,  I  consider  this  a  close  call  and  I  attrib- 
ute my  salvation  in  this  instance  to  the  instrumentality  of  mor- 
phine. Besides  this,  it  is  a  fixed  police  dogma,  a  hoary  truth, 
that  a  hophead,  by  the  menace  of  fear,  is  absolutely  incapable  of 
committing  murder.  They  are  doli  incapax.  Indulgence  in  the 
drug  is  the  whole  of  their  care ;  in  the  fats  of  Plumpy  Bacchus 
their  cares  are  drowned. 

Whether  the  facts  were  essential  to  the  moral  conveyed  in 
these  pages,  I  leave  the  reader  to  judge. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


MAY  THE  EARTH  LIE  LIGHTLY  ON  THY  GRAVE 


"Lay  her  i'  the  earth, 
And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring." 

— Hamlet. 

In  their  tenement  of  clay  in  a  little  city  of  the  dead,  upon 
the  very  hem  of  a  little  city  of  the  living,  two  souls  dwell  in  the 
serenity  of  death. 

In  the  same  rude  sarcophagus  in  a  retired  spot  in  this  campo 
santo,  a  Madonna  and  her  babe  have  slumbered  for  more  than 
two  decades. 

Unknelled,  unwept  and  unknown,  side  by  side  they  have  slept 
thru  all  these  passing  years. 

'Tis  pitiful,  'tis  wondrous  pitiful,  the  tragic  story  of  a  young 
girl's  sacrifice — of  a  passion  fled — and  'tis  strange,  'tis  passing 
strange,  that  in  TIME 'S  far  apogees  no  message  has  come  to  fix 
her  identity  before  a  curious  world.  Yet,  it  may  be  best  that  a 
mere  name  survive  the  silence  of  the  soundless  tomb. 

In  the  flush  of  unsullied  purity  of  character  and  as  ignorant 
of  forbidden  things  as  a  Carmelite  Nun,  in  a  moment  of  confid- 
ing resignation  when  the  blood  is  warm,  and  overcome  by  the 
blandishments  of  a  libertine,  she  surrendered  to  him  the  jewel  in 
her  dower  and  went  tripping  to  her  death.  It  is  the  old  story  of 
the  moth  and  the  flame  and  the  singeing  of  pretty  wings,  and  it 
teaches  the  old  moral.   It  is  the  price  paid  to  folly. 

More  than  twenty  years  have  come  and  gone  since  a  company 
of  players  invaded  the  little  town  of  Missoula,  Montana,  for  a 
one  night's  stand.  It  was  chaperoned  by  a  histrionic  boniface, 
who,  in  his  day,  shone  as  a  matinee  idol  in  the  spotlight  of 
comedy.  So  that  the  purblind  public  be  not  tricked,  it  may  be 
proper  to  state  that  this  effulgent  star  is  a  benedict  no  less  than 
five  times  and  just  recently  broke  thru  the  literary  horizon  by 


248 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  publication  of  a  brochure,  pregnant  with  amatory  conquests 
of  the  clinging  vine. 

With  this  company  was  a  pretty  and  attractive  ingenue,  who, 
upon  arrival  was  sick  unto  death.  The  potentialities  of  medical 
science  and  surgical  skill  conjoined,  however,  proved  abortive, 
and  when  too  late,  mercy  was  extended  to  the  unhappy  sufferer, 
and  she  died,  giving  birth  to  her  stillborn  child. 

From  the  shards  and  splinters  obtained,  I  gather  that  this 
company  responding  to  a  signatory  date,  effected  a  hasty  hegirs 
to  the  next  town,  disregarding  the  formality  of  any  provision 
looking  to  the  customary  aid  and  comfort,  much  less  the  promise 
of  Christian  interment  of  this  unfortunate  girl.  From  some  of 
the  staid  matrons  of  Missoula,  who  have  not  forgotten  this  un- 
forgettable incident,  I  am  indebted  for  the  facts  here  recorded. 

During  the  evening  of  the  day  upon  which  she  died,  she  was 
buried,  no  mourners  accompanying  the  simple  cortege  to  its 
narrow  cell,  no  padre  uttering  a  salvo.  With  the  poet,  it  seemed 
that  this  soul  was 

"One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breathe- 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death." 

In  the  gloaming  of  the  gelid  moon  she  was  borne  to  the  tomb 
with  her  babe.    She  was  truly  more  to  be  pitied  than  censured. 

But  for  the  tender  ministrations  of  the  women  of  Missoula, 
who  have  constantly  sweetened  it  with  the  fairest  flowers  of  the 
field,  this  grave  would  have  mouldered  to  decay  and  the  mem- 
ory of  its  sleepers  wafted  to  the  tongueless  silence  of  the  dream- 
less dust ;  but  it  remained  for  George  M.  Cohan,  one  of  the  fore- 
most projectors  in  the  theatrical  firmament,  who  some  years  ago 
visited  the  town  en  tour,  to  perpetuate  its  memory  in  enduring 
form.  Two  monolithic  shafts  now  stand  sentry  over  the  holy 
dust  with  the  words  etched  in  the  black  Egyptian  marble  :  ' '  In 
memory  of  May  Durfee." 

These  stones  arise  as  a  simple  and  unaffecting  memorial  in 
aeterna,  dedicated  to  virgin  sacrifice,  and  a  remediless  wrong 
that  cries  out  in  mute  accusation  of  her  seducer,  that  in  the 
courts  of  High  Heaven  it  be  righted.  It  is  a  monument  symbol- 
izing that  virtue  survives  the  grave. 

The  last  time  that  I  was  there — it  was  in  June — when  all 
nature  was  revitalized  with  renewed  love  and  joy  and  song,  this 
grave  was  festooned  with  "violets  dim  and  sweeter  than  the  lids 
of  Juno 's  eyes  or  Cytherea 's  breath, ' '  garnered  by  loving  hands 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


249 


and  strewn  there  by  the  women  of  Missoula,  who  would  in  rever- 
ential commiseration 

"Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair." 

Let  us  believe  that  as  we  draw  the  veil  over  woman's  frailty 
and  the  duplicity  of  man,  and  drop  the  tear  of  pity  upon  the 
emerald  verdure  that  blankets  the  dead,  that  these  two  canonized 
souls  have  been  transported  to  the  ''Real  Wonderland,"  where 
they  are  now  wooing  each  other  in  the  soft,  sweet  music  of 
angel's  whisper. 

Let  us  believe,  too,  that  in  the  dispensation  of  Heaven,  an 
avenging  Apollyon  will  visit  retributive  justice  to  the  assassin 
of  her  virtue  when  he  comes  out  of  life 's  trance,  and  the  moment 
arrives  for  the  mysterious  fingers  of  death  to  pluck  the  soul, 
and  he  ascends  to  a  paradise  of  folded  arms  in  that  city  of  sighs 
and  tears,  in  the  valley  of  silent  men. 


NOTE. — The  author  practiced  law  here  from  1909-1916. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


WHAT  TURNED  MY  HAIR  WHITE 


"Why,  one  that  rode  to's  execution,  man 
Could  never  go  so  slow;  I  have  heard  of  riding  wagers, 
Where  horses  have  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  run  V  the  clock's  behalf" 

— Gymbeline. 

I  am  a  little  past  the  grand  climacteric  of  life.  My  frame  is 
lithe  and  agile ;  my  step  is  steady  and  elastic ;  my  vision  is  clear. 
My  hair,  though,  is  as  silvered  as  the  gray  hairs  of  Nestor,  and 
this  I  attribute  to  the  horrors  of  a  single  night.  Even  now  as  I 
recall  the  events  that  surge  for  recognition  upon  the  tablets  of 
memory,  and  stand  like  ghosts  on  the  battlements  of  yesterday, 
I  am  driven  to  seek  solace  in  the  drowsy  blood  of  the  poppy  or 
drown  the  memory  of  it  by  a  religious  devotion  to  the  alcoholic 
king. 

Although  a  lustra  of  time  has  passed  since  the  events  which  I 
am  about  to  record  happened,  each  night  that  I  have  closed  my 
eyes  in  resignation  to  slumber,  I  have  seen  the  same  scenes  re- 
enacted  and  suffered  nightmares  of  reverie  which  only  stilled  by 
the  hypnotic  virtues  of  morphia  or  by  the  subtle  agency  of  rum. 
Colossal  efforts  have  I  made  to  blot  them  from  my  memory  by 
auto-suggestion,  but  all  in  vain,  for,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  they 
will  not  "down"  and  only  when  dissolution  folds  me  in  its 
bosom,  will  the  recollection  of  them  be  entombed  in  the  musty 
necropolis  of  oblivion.  I  marvel  at  my  own  survival  when  it  is 
considered  that  my  body  was  actually  fanned  by  the  wings  of 
death,  that  within  the  thousandth  part  of  a  second,  I  would  have 
been  dashed  to  pieces  upon  the  rail  or  swallowed  up  in  swirling 
quicksands.  I  cannot  figure  out  the  why  or  the  wherefore, 
except  that  I  am  always  conscious  of  the  latent  powers  of  the 
human  spirit,  and  of  the  direct  intervention  into  human  life  of 
outside  forces  which  mould  or  modify  our  actions.  Materialists 
would  attribute  my  salvation  to  blind  and  ungoverned  chance, 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


251 


animists  would  arrogate  it  to  God.  While  we  are  in  this  mood, 
let  me  uncork  a  phial  of  one  night's  horror. 

The  shades  of  night  had  just  made  the  empyrean  blue  ray- 
less,  as  I  started  on  a  pedestrian  excursion  counting  the  ties  over 
the  line  of  the  B.  &  M.  railway  from  Ashland,  Neb.,  to  Omaha. 
Before  the  flower  of  this  beautiful  May  day  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared, however,  I  had  administered  to  myself  the  usual 
' ' shot"  of  morphine,  as  an  especial  boost  for  the  trip.  All  nature 
was  redolent  with  the  ambrosial  perfume  of  vernal  flowers  and 
fruit  blossoms;  yet  in  spite  of  these,  I  realized  that  I  was  down 
on  my  luck.  I  was  down  on  my  luck  because  the  meagre  silver 
that  I  had  that  day  fell  into  the  melting  pot  of  the  green  cloth, 
as  a  five-dollar  jackpot  is  hard  to  leave.  Like  most  gamblers,  I 
had  sacrificed  the  necessary  in  the  hope  of  gaining  the  super- 
fluous, and  had  lost.  It  was  by  reason  of  this  that  I  was  im- 
pelled to  sordid  frugality  in  employing  this  unconventional 
means  to  reach  a  destination  where  I  could  by  dextrous,  if  not 
sharp  practices,  retrieve  my  villanous  hap. 

I  trudged  along  the  steel  pathway  in  the  uncertain  gloom  and 
the  solemn  stillness  of  the  night,  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the 
silence  coming  from  my  personal  tread  and  the  beetles'  drone.  I 
inhaled  with  wholesome  avidity  the  ethereal  ozone  as  I  thought 
of  the  morrow,  and  what  it  would  bring  to  me,  whether  a  triumph 
or  a  void.  I  yearned  for  a  change  of  luck  in  a  desperate  tourna- 
ment with  the  card  sharps  of  Nebraska 's  mother  city.  This  latter 
reflection  held  the  center  of  the  stage  of  my  brain,  as  I  heard  the 
rush  of  water  thru  the  darkness.  It  was  a  faint  but  distinct 
trickle.  I  at  once  divined  the  local  topography  as  the  swirling, 
swishing,  cavorting,  eddying  waters  of  the  Platte. 

I  was  aware  that  it  was  a  channel  fraught  with  treacherous 
sands  and  whirlpools,  and  still  more  so  at  this  season  of  the  year. 
I  knew  that  the  bridges  that  spanned  its  uncertain  currents  were 
prey  to  the  torrential  washouts  that  follow  in  its  wake.  I  became 
therefore  mentally  excited,  and  redoubled  my  speed  in  breathless 
haste  to  find  some  means  of  crossing  the  bridge  that  must  wind 
over  its  surface.  The  tumult  of  the  waters  soon  served  notice  of 
my  near  approach.  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  river  as  it  swirled 
and  eddied  in  a  monotone  of  ominous  portent.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  very  torrent  roared  tumultuous  threats.  I  heard  noth- 
ing but  this  music,  and  saw  nothing  in  the  terrible  gloom  of  the 
night. 

We  cross  many  bridges  in  life,  but  if  we  only  knew  what  was 
in  store  for  us  on  the  other  side,  in  a  great  number  of  instances, 
we  would  stay  on  this  side.  In  my  case,  it  was  one  more  river  to 
cross  and  thus  leave  the  Shadbellies  behind. 


252 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


I  therefore  commenced  stepping  the  ties,  first  making  sure  by 
feeling  my  way  that  I  was  between  the  rails.  I  supposed  the 
bridge  to  be  about  a  mile  in  length,  so  that  I  was  constrained  to 
make  such  haste  as  was  compatible  with  safety  in  minimizing  the 
liability  of  being  caught  up  by  a  passing  train.  I  knew  of  the 
projecting  platforms  erected  on  both  sides  of  the  bridge,  but  to 
these  I  gave  no  thought,  the  single  idea  being  to  gain  the  farther 
approach  in  one  forward  plunge.  My  eyes  were  useless  on  this 
Stygian  night,  except  that  I  could  discern  a  light  ahead  and  in 
the  rear.    My  ears  were  acute  for  any  sound  above  the  waters. 

As  I  was  thus  forging  ahead,  I  perceived  a  demi-jour,  but 
there  was  no  accompaniment  of  sound,  and  I  dismissed  the  re- 
flection from  my  mind,  believing  that  if  it  were  anything,  it  was 
a  lantern  in  the  hands  of  some  gandy-dancer  or  watchman  of  the 
bridge.    It  seemed  like  a  jack-o-lantern  in  the  solemn  gloom. 

But  just  then  my  sight  was  jaundiced  by  sinister  forebodings 
for  the  flicker  grew  in  proportions,  and  there  came  with  it  a 
tintinnabulation  like  muffled  thunder.  In  the  darkness  this 
sound  was  dreadful.  I  stopped  and  noticed  its  growing  lumin- 
osity, the  weird  rumble  augmenting  above  the  roar  and  swell  of 
the  waters  beneath  my  feet.  This  gave  cause  for  the  most  serious 
alarm. 

Now,  it  is  a  very  common  thing  for  the  imagination  to  paint 
for  the  senses,  both  in  the  visible  and  the  invisible  world.  My 
heart  beat  with  the  confused  fear  of  something  invisible. 

Could  I  be  disillusionized  ?  Could  my  vision  and  hearing,  at 
all  times  normal,  deceive  me  now  ?  Could  I  be  the  victim  of  some 
extraordinary  illusion?  I  knew  that  even  a  contradiction,  an 
anomaly,  an  apparent  impossibility  may  be  a  truth. 

So  I  decided  to  right  about  face  and  come  what  might  come, 
I  would  race  to  reach  the  southern  approach  of  the  bridge  that  I 
had  so  recently  left.  I  had  no  ghost  of  a  look-in  in  any  other 
direction.  With  the  Thane  of  Cawdor,  I  mused:  "If  'twere 
done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well  it  were  done  quickly."  I 
devoured  this  with  all  the  madness  of  despair,  and  decided  to 
give  no  thought  to  the  projecting  platforms  of  the  bridge,  for,  in 
any  attempt  to  locate  one  of  them,  and  failing,  one  of  two  alter- 
natives presented  itself,  that  of  my  body  being  mangled  on  the 
rail  or  a  precipitous  plunge  into  the  seething,  tumultuous  tur- 
moil below.   I  could  at  least  choose  the  manner  of  my  death. 

He  who  pursues  two  hares  catches  neither,  and  all  that  follow 
their  noses  are  led  by  their  eyes  but  blind  men,  so  I  decided  to 
follow  my  nose. 

Retracing  my  hayfoot  strawfoot,  I  started  on  a  run,  resolving 
that  should  there  be.  any  liability  of  my  being  overtaken  in  the 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


253 


interim  by  the  train,  I  would  jump  from  the  structure  to  the  left 
into  the  waters  below,  preferring  to  take  a  chance  in  the  boiling 
quicksands  rather  than  certain  death  upon  the  rail. 

My  sensibilities  were  flooded  by  a  rush  of  possibilities  and 
probabilities,  and  among  mental  calculations  there  arose  the  idea 
of  lying  prostrate  between  one  of  the  outer  rails  and  the  ends  of 
the  ties,  but  its  feasibility  was  of  fleeting  moment,  for  I  reasoned 
that  I  might  in  such  case  be  brushed  off,  or  instantly  annihilated 
by  the  steps  or  other  projections  from  the  cars. 

I  continued  sprinting  over  the  ties,  being  particularly  cau- 
tious of  floundering,  which  would  precipitate  a  stumble  and  fall, 
but  before  I  had  gone  ten  yards  I  tripped  on  a  tie  and  in  another 
moment,  had  fallen  prone.  I  picked  myself  up  and  continued 
the  race  for  life.  The  train  was  thundering  along  at  a  terrific 
rate.  The  oil  burner  of  the  caravan  was  a  dim  one,  and  the  steel 
steed  was  getting  perilously  close  to  my  heels.  In  the  teeth  of 
this  danger  I  did  some  running  and  leaping  and  hopping  and 
skipping  over  those  bridge  ties,  as  tho'  the  silver  wings  of  Mer- 
cury were  on  my  heels,  and  with  belly  to  the  wind  I  split  the 
air.  As  I  resolve  in  my  mind  the  fox-trotting  and  the  maxixe 
balancing  that  I  executed  in  that  mad  Olympian  dash,  I  am 
instantly  reminded  of  Atlanta.  Were  it  possible  to  be  photo- 
graphed, the  film  would  surely  be  a  sight  to  shake  the  midriff 
of  despair  with  laughter.  It  was  no  hesitation  waltz,  no  gliding 
panther  trot.  The  headlight  shone  more  luminous  and  streamed 
before  me,  thus  rendering  the  pathway  more  clear,  and  this 
urged  me  on  to  increased  celerity.  Although  I  was  running  fast, 
I  felt  cold  in  my  arms  and  legs.  It  was  the  terrible  shiver  of 
dread.  The  pilot  was  now  within  a  few  feet  of  my  heels.  All 
the  forces  of  my  life  were  suddenly  concentrated  at  the  core  of 
my  being,  marshalled  and  crowded  there  for  that  impending 
supreme  effort  which  the  outposts  of  instinct  announced  as 
perilously  near.  I  knew  that  if  I  were  on  that  track  another 
single  second,  I  would  be  ground  into  shapeless  atoms.  My  fer- 
mented brain  was  tortured  by  a  bedlam  of  swarming  ideas. 

With  a  wavering,  aimless  fall,  I  pitched  headlong  into  the 
sterile  darkness  to  my  left  into  supposedly  suffocating  depths — 
the  black  curtain  of  dissolution  fell  over  the  painted  picture  of 
the  world,  there  was  the  noise  of  a  thousand  rivers  tumbling  into 
a  bottomless  cavern,  and  I  seemed  to  expire.  My  feet  seemed  to 
touch  a  sandy  bottom,  and  I  rose  to  the  surface.  I  was  beaten 
down  by  the  billows,  was  swept  along  those  narrow  channels  of 
rock,  until  half  suffocated.  The  torrent  seemed  stronger  than 
a  mill  sluice,  and  tugged  and  worried  at  my  limbs  like  the 
fingers  of  a  fury;  I  felt  the  pebbly  gravel  sifting  and  rolling 


254 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


beneath  my  feet,  and  the  strong  lift  of  the  water  as  it  swirled, 
flying  by  in  the  utter  darkness,  hissing  and  bubbling  at  my 
heaving  chest  in  a  way  that  frightened  me.  At  last  with  every 
muscle  on  fire,  with  the  strain  and  turmoil  and  my  head  giddy 
with  the  dancing  torrent  all  about  me,  I  heard  the  lapping  of 
waters  to  my  right,  and  heaving  a  heavy  sigh  of  relief,  collected 
myself  for  one  more  crowning  effort.  But  as  I  turned  now  from 
going  down  stream,  as  I  thought,  to  reach  the  supposed  shore,  I 
was  swept  over  and  over  in  a  drowning,  bewildering  cascade  of 
foam  away  down  the  stream. 

It  was  the  wildest  swim  that  ever  a  mortal  took.  So  fiercely 
did  I  spin  and  fly  that  heaven  and  earth  seemed  mixed  together. 
I  am  a  good  swimmer,  but  who  could  make  the  bank  in  such  a 
cauldron  of  angry  waters?  One  moment  I  was  on  top;  in  an- 
other I  was  under;  and  as  I  rose,  an  angry,  foamy  wave  would 
strike  me  full  tilt  in  the  face.  Presently  a  mighty  log  came 
foaming  down  upon  me,  laboring  thru  the  torrent  surf  like  a 
full-sailed  ship.  As  I  passed  it,  I  threw  an  arm  over  a  strong 
root,  and  thus  for  an  hour  or  more  behind  that  black  midnight 
javelin,  I  flew  downwards,  I  knew  not  whither.  Then  it  pres- 
ently left  the  strong  stream,  and  towing  me  towards  a  soft 
alluvial  beach  just  as  dawn  was  breaking  in  the  East,  deposited 
me  there,  and  slowly  disappeared  again  into  the  void,  and  then 
to  my  sensibilities  all  was  blank,  although  at  the  very  time  I  was 
vaguely  aware  of  strong  arms  around  my  body,  under  my  arms, 
and  half  lifting  me  and  dragging  me  along. 

When  consciousness  came  to  my  eyes  again,  everything 
around  me  was  altered  and  strange.  The  very  air  that  I  drew 
in  with  my  faint  breaths  had  a  taste  of  the  unknown  about  it, 
an  impalpable  something  that  was  not  before,  speaking  of  change 
and  novelty.  As  for  surroundings,  it  was  only  dimly  that  any 
fashioned  themselves  before  those  dull  and  sleepy  eyes  of  mine, 
that  hesitated  as  they  drowsily  turned  about  whether  to  pro- 
nounce this  object,  and  that  true  material  substance,  or  still  the 
idle  fantasy  of  dreams.  As  time  went  on  certainty  developed 
out  of  doubt,  and  I  found  myself  speculating  on  a  strangely  fur- 
nished chamber.  All  round  the  walls  were  icons  and  crucifixes 
and  golden  ewers  and  miniature  statues  of  saints,  a  pallid,  pearly 
transcript  of  the  Mother  and  her  Nazarene  babe,  all  in  silver  and 
opal  tints  upon  the  sacred  woodwork,  and  images  of  saints  and 
martyrs.  Overhead  the  ceiling  was  a  maze  of  cunningly  wrought 
and  carved  woodwork,  dark  with  time,  and  harmonized  with  the 
assimilating  touches  of  age. 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  felt  my  pulse,  while  gusts  of  alternate 
dread  and  hope  swept  thru  the  leafless  thickets  of  remembrance. 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


255 


A  wave  of  unconsciousness  again  submerged  me  for  but  a 
moment,  and  with  returning  consciousness  came  the  twilight  of  a 
dream.  I  came  back  to  supposed  life  with  a  sharp  tingling  of  my 
whole  frame  as  if  pierced  with  a  thousand  needles.  I  had  no 
clear  consciousness  of  my  own  existence,  except  that  I  nursed  a 
hazy  thought  that  I  was  planted  on  the  banks  of  another  river. 
But  in  the  disorder  of  my  brain  and  the  strange  circumstances 
which  had  filled  the  latter  days,  in  that  total  feebleness,  too,  in 
which  I  could  not  move  a  limb  or  utter  a  word,  a  persuasion 
seized  me  that  I  was  already  beyond  the  final  boundary  of 
mortals.  Presently  my  meditations  were  disturbed  by  some  very 
different  outward  sensations.  There  came  stealing  over  the 
paved  floor  a  crisp,  starched  figure,  and  to  this  white  angel  I 
have  a  vague,  indistinct,  confused  perception  of  having  said : 

1 1 1  died  last  night,  and  is  this  the  other  life  ?  It  seems  as  long 
already  as  the  other  one?" 

"Say  bo,  come  out  of  the  clouds;  we  found  some  damaging 
merchandise  in  your  duds  last  night.  Are  you  a  'snowbird'? 
Do  you  need  a  1  shot '  ? "  she  inquired  with  cheerful  simplicity. 

With  the  sense  of  security  announced  by  the  ineffable  neat- 
ness about  me,  the  fine  cambric  pillows  and  all  the  rest,  reflect- 
ing snowy  vestiture,  and  the  fact  that  night  had  been  succeeded 
by  day,  I  sensed  the  pregnancy  of  her  question  and  impulsively 
retorted,  I  fear,  in  the  strained,  faltering,  sobbing  accents  of  the 
morphine  fiend  emerging  from  an  atmosphere  of  coma  into  the 
luminous  day  of  consciousness,  into  a  sense  of  the  dark  reality  of 
existence. 

"You  may  shuffle  the  cards,"  I  replied. 

Whereupon,  she  handed  me  the  hypodermic  and  the  morphia, 
and  I  rammed  the  instrument  with  the  aluminum  horns,  and  a 
sting  of  living  fire  into  the  scarf-skin.  This  action  on  my  part 
engendered  some  skepticism  in  the  nurse  as  to  the  sincerity  of 
my  intentions,  and  evidently  she  thought  that  I  entertained  the 
terrible  project  of  suicide.  As  irrefutable  proof  of  my  addic- 
tion, I  exhibited  the  purple  tattoo  on  my  arm  and  then  she  be- 
lieved me.  Yet,  as  I  injected  not  one,  but  two  barrels  thru  the 
cuticle  of  my  arm,  she  nearly  fainted  and  in  a  moment  was 
beside  the  telephone.  At  this  juncture,  a  sad-faced  Benedictine 
sister  entered  the  room,  and  seeing  me  in  the  act  of  using  a  hypo- 
dermic, made  the  beads  run  thru  her  fingers  quicker  than  water 
runs  from  a  spout  after  a  summer's  thunder  shower.  "Miseri- 
corde,  Domine  nobis"  she  murmured,  as  she  pressed  a  crucifix 
and  rosary  into  my  hand. 

Following  this  singular  adventure,  I  ascertained  that  some 
fishermen  found  me  unconscious  upon  a  sandy  shoal  of  the  river 


256 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


just  as  the  vertical  beams  of  the  sun  pierced  the  matutinal  dew, 
and  they  had  me  removed  to  St.  Elizabeth's  hospital  in  Lincoln. 

I  know  that  had  I  been  suddenly  killed  by  the  tremendous 
impact  or  been  drowned  in  the  boiling  stream,  one  dope  fiend 
would  have  thus  been  snatched  from  the  galaxy  of  those  who 
tread  the  primrose  paths  of  dalliance  and  no  regrets.  But  little 
wonder  is  it  that  I  did  not  dissolve  from  sudden  shock,  or  worse 
still,  been  reduced  to  incurable  lunacy.  One  phase,  however, 
remains  as  a  sequel  to  this  unique  experience,  and  this  is  that  I 
had  a  sense  of  being  a  thousand  years  old,  and  was  not  pierced 
with  astonishment  when,  on  gazing  into  a  dreadful  mirror  a  few 
days  afterward,  upon  the  discovery  that  my  hair  had  turned  as 
white  as  swansdown,  so  much  so  that  my  most  intimate  buddy 
would  have  warrant  to  exclaim:    "Quantum  mutatis  ah  illoV 

And  I  know  further  that  had  I  not  had  a  copious  dose  of 
morphine  hypodermically  injected  into  me  just  prior  thereto,  I 
would  not  have  had  the  emotional  stability  to  have  accomplished 
my  salvation. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


THE  DOPE  DOCTOR 


"Tis  Butts, 
The  king's  physician;  as  he  passed  along, 
How  earnestly  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  me."  i 
— King  Henry  VIII. 

In  the  great  city  of  New  York,  between  Madison  and  Fifth 
avenues  about  twenty-five  years  since,  was  located  one  Doctor 

B  .   At  this  time,  the  locality  was  a  fashionable  part 

of  the  residential  district  of  Gotham,  and  nearby  was  the  Stewart 
marble  mansion. 

Aimlessly  wandering  about  this  part  of  the  city  in  quest  of 
a  dope  depot  where  morphine  could  be  dispensed  to  me,  I  pushed 
the  great  physician 's  bell.  An  obsequious  lictor  conducted  me  to 
the  presence  of  the  doctor,  who  received  me  with  the  usual  dis- 
play of  affability  common  to  medical  men  when  approached  by 
a  prospective  patient  supposedly  with  an  inflated  wallet.  He 
had  a  frank,  manly  countenance  that  invited  address,  and  there 
was  a  fascination  about  him  which  I  could  not  resist.  Suddenly, 
after  a  few  minutes'  conversation,  he  seemed  already  to  be  in- 
stalled in  my  intimacy.  We  had  evidently  reciprocal  sympathy, 
similar  tastes,  equal  intellectual  culture.  We  therefore  thawed 
into  good  fellowship,  drawn  together  by  these  mutual  attractions, 
or  possibly  animal  magnetism  or  some  power  of  magic.  In  other 
words,  we  must  have  read  (and  I  know  that  I  myself  did),  in 
each  other's  eyes,  the  sincerity  of  honest  souls. 

I  believe  that  the  countenance  is  the  portal  and  picture  of 
the  mind,  and  I  further  believe  that  mind  is  master  of  matter 
and  the  laws  of  matter,  and  man  can  summon  both  to  work 
against  themselves.  I  also  believe  in  the  strange  pseudo  sciences 
of  animal  magnetism  and  electro-biology,  and  that  it  is  possible 
for  man  to  exercise  a  magical  charm  and  dominion  over  his  fel- 
lows. And  I  further  believe  that  there  is  a  simple  intuition  of 
friendship  in  some  lonely  self-abstracted  nature  that  is  nearly 


258 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


akin  to  love  at  first  sight,  and  I  am  certainly  a  believer  in  intui- 
tion and  direct  perception  in  the  unconscious  sagacity  of  the 
right-minded  man. 

' '  I  hope  that  you  are  a  mind  reader,  doctor, ' '  I  ventured. 

' '  I  know  what  you  need ;  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  put 
the  question.    Which  arm?" 

I  thereupon  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  my  left  arm  and  the  man 
of  science  grabbed  his  hypodermic. 

''Will  you  permit  me  to  cook  the  soup,  doctor?"  I  asked. 

"This  is  a  general  dispensary  for  dopeheads,  and  you  are 
free  to  act.   Proceed,  my  humble  guest,"  he  replied. 

I  shot  twenty  grains  of  morphine  into  the  tissues  of  my  left 
arm  with  professional  dexterity,  and  then  thanked  the  doctor  for 
the  accommodations  extended. 

After  this  I  became  loquacious,  and  we  exchanged  polite 
amenities  and  everything  was  well  with  my  soul  here  on  earth 
and  beyond  the  veil. 

Among  the  things  which  he  told  me  relative  to  the  dope  habit, 
he  said  that  from  7  :30  p.  m.  until  midnight,  each  evening  it  re- 
quired the  combined  efforts  of  himself  and  the  services  of  his 
two  assistants,  working  indefatigably  as  a  hive  of  bees,  to  min- 
ister to  the  requisitions  of  patients  addicted  to  the  use  of  nar- 
cotic drugs.  He  declared  that  very  often  a  little  brown  glass  or 
silver  amphorae  of  tablets  was  as  much  a  necessity  to  some 
women  of  the  smart  set  as  cosmetics.  His  patrons  embraced  the 
exclusive  of  the  tenderloin,  the  elect,  the  chosen  people,  the  true 
aristocracy,  who  found  it  requisite  in  order  to  maintain  the 
rounds  of  social  conventionalities.  Out  of  nervous  wrecks,  it 
made  beautiful  creatures,  with  brilliant  myopic  eyes,  flushed 
cheeks  and  youths  again.  Elderly  matrons,  mothers  of  families, 
middle  aged  spinsters,  debutantes,  elderly  men  and  some  bache- 
lors constituted  his  clientele.  It  kept  them  fast  and  furious  in 
the  social  whirl.  He  maintained  that  people  think  that  drugs  are 
a  curse  only  to  the  underworld,  but  the  public  had  no  idea  what 
inroads  the  habit  made  in  the  upper  world,  too.  The  doctor  also 
said  that  if  the  general  public  was  aware  of  the  large  traffic  in 
narcotism  as  an  agency  to  sustain  the  animal  economy  in  a  super- 
erogtory  channel,  it  might  precipitate  a  general  rattling  of  dessi- 
cated  bones  and  the  laundering  of  soiled  linen  in  many  family 
closets. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


A  PROVIDENTIAL  DELIVERANCE 


"What  can  be  avoided 
Whose  end  is  purposed  by  the  mighty  gods?" 

— Julius  Caesar. 

Do  things  happen  by  coincidence  and  chance,  or  is  there  a 
mind  that  directs  them? 

It  is  an  incontrovertible  truth  that  a  stranger  in  dub  towns 
thruout  the  country  without  visible  means  of  subsistence,  is 
liable  to  be  placed  under  the  ban  of  suspicion  and  gathered  in 
for  investigation.  This  is  peculiarly  true  should  the  stranger's 
sartorial  integuments  betray  the  ravages  of  time  and  his  visage 
show  4 'allegiance  to  the  Society  of  Ben  Franklin."  The  indica- 
tion of  reduced  circumstances  in  the  male  of  the  better  class  are 
first  visible  in  the  boots  and  shirt — the  boots  offensively  exhibit- 
ing a  degree  of  polish  inconsistent  with  their  dilapidated  condi- 
tion, and  the  shirt  showing  an  extent  of  ostentatious  surface  that 
is  invariably  fatal  to  the  threadbare  waistcoat  that  it  partially 
covers.  To  the  boggle-eyed  villagers  and  the  town  "bull, "  small 
vices  appear  in  tattered  clothes.  A  suspicious  appearance,  that 
indescribable  something  which  all  understand  and  none  can  de- 
fine, is  sufficient  reason  that  society  should  take  a  man  by  the 
collar.  Conversely,  should  our  stranger  sport  a  "presentable 
front,"  suspicion  is  disarmed,  and  by  a  course  of  "keep  off  the 
grass"  deportment,  calculated  to  divert  official  surveillance,  his 
domiciliation  in  the  civic  gates  may  be  prolonged  sine  die. 

It  was  after  a  week's  sojourn  in  the  Dalles,  Oregon,  during 
which  time  I  played  to  the  limit  the  saloons  and  red  light  district 
among  dope  fiends  as  blanched  as  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  and 
indulged  in  the  most  riotous  orgies  and  maudlin  seances  at  the 
altars  of  Bacchus  and  Gambrinus  and  wallowed  in  the  lowest 
depths  of  the  city's  dunghills,  that  I  was  finally  driven  out  by 
the  town  dogberry.  The  offense  that  I  was  more  guilty  of  lay 
in  the  fact  that  I  had  worn  my  welcome  out  until  it  actually 


260 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


frayed  at  the  edges,  and  although  I  sported  a  decent  exterior  and 
possessed  some  of  the  root  of  all  evil,  I  stood  not  upon  the  order 
of  my  going,  but  cut  loose  without  the  formality  of  a  second 
warning.  It  was  only  the  fear  of  remaining  over  Sunday  in  the 
detestable  city  jail,  and  the  abominable  provender  there,  and  the 
usual  line-up  on  the  following  Monday  morning  before  the  judi- 
cial abortion  that  sent  me  thus  afield. 

I  counted  the  ties  out  of  town  for  about  two  hours,  arriving 
at  a  water  tank  about  dusk,  and  the  weather  being  tempered  to 
the  shorn  lamb,  I  camped  here  a  la  belle  etoile  over  night.  On 
Sunday  morning  I  got  as  far  as  Biggs,  a  benighted,  rough-neck 
hole,  and  here  I  prepared  to  rest  thru  the  Lord 's  day  as  a  blessed 
soul  doth  in  Elysium  after  much  turmoil. 

Biggs  is  a  junction  point  between  the  Dalles  and  Pendleton 
on  the  0.  R.  &  N.  company's  line.  It  is  nestled  amid  Oregon 
pines,  gums,  cypresses  and  tall  green  cane,  and  besides  this  is  a 
blue-ribbon  burg.  There  is  here  a  depot,  a  bum  hotel,  a  few 
scattered  dwellings,  and  lastly  a  railroad  warehouse.  So  far  as 
any  bustle  is  concerned  the  town  evidently  long  ago  made  its 
peace  with  the  world  and  had  sunk  to  a  gentle,  unmolested  decay, 
for  there  appeared  absolutely  nothing  to  divert  the  attention  or 
arouse  the  interest  of  the  most  lethargic  stranger  within  its 
walls.  In  fact,  the  town  was  in  a  state  of  innocuous  desuetude, 
whatever  that  may  be.  I  thought  of  attending  divine  devotion, 
something  that  I  hadn't  observed  since  I  left  the  parent  bunga- 
low, but  in  this  geographical  fly  speck  there  was  not  even  a 
church.  Unable  therefore  to  worship  God  and  get  down  on  my 
marrow  bones  and  ask  absolution  of  the  throne  for  the  many 
wanton  remissnesses  of  the  week  just  faded  away  into  history,  I 
cast  about  to  find  some  haven  of  rest,  some  obscure  and  seques- 
tered place  where  one  addicted  to  soliloquies  might  muse  un- 
molested, and  where  philosophy  might  apply  the  first  dressing 
to  wounded  feelings. 

Soliloquy  is  the  smoke  exhaled  by  the  inmost  fires  of  the  soul. 

The  warehouse  mentioned  here  looked  inviting,  and  in  this 
entrepot,  I  would  rusticate  thru  the  day.  Here  I  would  be 
exempt  from  public  haunt.  Here  there  would  be  nothing  to 
disturb  the  serenity  of  my  meditations,  and  my  rest  would  be 
unbroken  by  sounds  of  toil,  traffic  and  idleness,  and  I  could 
indulge  in  reviving  a  thousand  dormant  germs  of  meditation  in 
the  deep  oblivion  of  solitude. 

It  was  filled  with  bags  of  wheat  to  the  ceiling  at  the  farther 
end  ,while  near  the  entrance  there  was  still  some  floor  space  left. 
The  bags  were  littered  in  an  indiscriminate  heap,  without  pre- 
tense of  either  order  or  symmetry.    The  sun's  rays  flooded  thru 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


261 


the  windows  at  the  entrance  and  threw  silver  and  black  traceries 
amid  twinkling  vistas  of  line  and  shadow,  upon  the  opposite  wall. 
1  decided  to  lie  down  upon  these  cushions ;  so,  after  having  taken 
a  "shot"  of  morphine  in  order  to  soften  my  craven  and  abject 
condition,  I  reclined  midway  up  this  mountain  of  wheat  bags, 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  smoked  away  for  some  minutes  the  lazy 
foot  of  time.  At  last  I  felt  a  kindly  blank  steal  over  my  senses, 
and  I  succumbed  to  the  pleasant  dreams  of  opium. 

I  had  been  wrapped  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus  but  a  brief 
season,  when  I  became  disturbed  by  a  sensible  shifting  of  the 
bags,  and  I  visualized  that  they  were  slowly  moving,  and  that  I 
was  being  carried  along  with  them.  Notwithstanding  these 
things,  I  remained  impassive  and  from  acute  drowsiness  forced 
by  the  drug,  I  was  again  about  to  surrender  myself  to  the  god- 
dess of  the  soft  eyes  and  her  blandishments,  in  slowly  stealing 
my  senses  away,  when  a  bag  from  aloft  struck  me  a  terrific  jolt 
on  the  head.  Ordinarily  such  a  contretemps  would  serve  notice 
upon  any  person,  whether  surcharged  with  morphine  or  not  so 
surcharged,  to  change  his  position  or  seek  safety  below.  Tracing 
the  course  of  events  afterwards,  I  believe  now  that  had  I  clam- 
bered aloft,  I  would  have  escaped  any  appreciable  discomfort. 

But  the  mighty  gods  purposed  otherwise. 

As  I  attempted  to  rise,  the  entire  mass  began  to  shift.  As 
they  slowly  descended,  I  was  irreclaimably  buried  under  an 
avalanche  of  wheat  bags,  and  in  a  moment  of  time  as  if  in  re- 
sponse to  some  fairy  wand,  their  further  descent  was  arrested, 
but  not  until  I  found  myself  penned  in  as  by  a  vise,  my  head 
and  arms  alone  being  free.  I  was  almost  buried  alive  beneath 
tons  of  weight.  I  endeavored  to  move  my  lower  sinews,  but  they 
refused  to  budge,  and  I  was  as  supinely  helpless  as  a  moat  caught 
in  the  wheels  of  the  world.  And  I  was  faced  with  the  proposition 
that  the  least  exertion  on  my  part  would  start  the  ball  again,  and 
I  might  encounter  a  living  death  without  the  faintest  promise  of 
ultimate  rescue.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  indulged  in  res- 
piration, and  if  I  breathed  at  all,  it  was  mechanical. 

It  seems  inconceivable  that  I  bore  the  weight  that  I  did  and 
lived  to  tell  it.  I  mused :  What  would  this  blind  cave  of  eternal 
night  be  like  ?  To  me  necrophobia  was  but  a  theory ;  now  it  is  a 
plain  fact,  so  easy  and  simple.  I  thought,  however,  that  if  the 
God  out  of  the  machinery  didn't  come  soon,  I  would  be  functus. 
And  as  this  awful  conviction  forced  itself  into  the  innermost 
chambers  of  my  soul,  I  was  dumfounded.  I  thought  that  being 
early  in  the  day,  someone  might  hear  my  lamentations  of  dis- 
tress, should  I  dare  utter  them  with  impunity. 

For  some  minutes  after  this  fancy  possessed  me,  I  remained 


262 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


without  motion.  I  could  not  summon  courage  to  budge.  I  was 
in  a  state  of  helpless  bewilderment,  yet  I  called  out  in  as  vocifer- 
ous a  voice  as  I  could  muster  up,  a  yell  that  expired  in  the  vast 
vacuum  of  silence.  It  would  obfuscate  the  arithmetic  of  memory 
to  tell  of  the  flood  of  recollections  that  came  surging  for  recog- 
nition, and  the  thousand  and  one  ideas  that  clamored  for  utter- 
ance. I  lived  my  entire  life  over  again  in  a  medley  of  recollec- 
tinos.  Atoms  of  time  dragged  themselves  into  ages,  and  a  minute 
seemed  eternity  itself.  In  such  tenseness  an  hour  eats  up  years. 
I  thought  that  if  I  could  but  lapse  into  hypnotic  sleep,  superin- 
duced by  the  copious  ' '  shot ' '  of  morphia  that  I  had  just  recently 
taken,  in  all  probability  there  would  be  one  morphine  fiend  less 
in  the  world  to  tread  the  vermillion  way.  Could  I  have  reached 
the  stuff  in  my  trousers  pocket  I  would  have  taken  an  overdose, 
and  let  her  go  at  that.  I  couldn't  reach  the  poison,  so  in  utter 
abandon  I  again  cried  aloud  in  a  long,  wild  and  continuous  shriek 
of  agony  which  resounded  thru  the  realms  of  space.  In  answer, 
there  came  the  silence  of  the  sea  that  o'erwhelms.  A  benumbing 
peace  seemed  to  fall  from  the  warehouse  walls,  the  peace  of  utter 
seclusion,  isolation,  oblivion,  death.  The  torture  of  meditation 
was  excessive,  and  I  was  descending  slowly  into  the  everlasting 
valley  of  despair.  I  felt  a  torpid  uneasiness — an  apathetic  en- 
durance of  dull  pain.  There  came  to  my  ears  a  low,  dull,  quick 
sound,  much  such  a  sound  as  a  watch  makes  when  enveloped  in 
cotton. 

It  was  the  beating  of  the  watch  of  time,  my  heart. 

Moralizing  in  the  retrospect,  it  seems  a  miracle  that  I  did  not 
dissolve  from  suppressed  emotion,  like  a  gambler  awaiting  the 
toss  of  the  high  card. 

When  nature  could  endure  wakefulness  no  longer,  it  was  with 
a  struggle  that  I  consented  to  sleep  for  I  shuddered  to  reflect 
that  upon  awakening  I  would  find  the  blackness  of  Black  Night. 
And  when  finally  I  sank  into  slumber,  it  was  only  to  rush  at 
once  into  a  world  of  phantasms  above  which,  with  vast,  sable, 
overshadowing  wings  hovered  predominant  the  innocuous  de- 
functitude  of  oblivion. 

I  am  albeit  a  skeptic  and  unorthodox  man.  I  am  neither  in- 
terested in  the  claims  of  the  adherents  of  design  or  those  of 
coincidence  who  contend  with  the  bayonet ;  I  care  nothing  about 
materialism,  idealism  or  transcendentalism;  but  I  do  say  that 
what  is  termed  Providence  or  the  thing  behind  the  machinery  of 
the  universe — mind,  impulse,  call  it  what  you  will — is  a  deity  of 
deliverance  and  that  in  my  case  he  intervened  in  my  rescue.  A 
contemplation  of  this  fact  made  me  a  believer  in  the  faith  of 
Israel,  and  I  clung  to  it  with  the  nervous  violence  of  one  who,  in 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


263 


a  shipwreck  feels  that  his  only  hope  is  in  the  plank  in  his  grasp, 
and  that  some  more  powerful  hand  is  tearing  even  that  plank 
away.  A  sensation  like  that  of  a  sickly  propensity  to  sleep  bound 
up  my  faculties,  and  whether  I  slept  or  fainted,  I  for  a  time  lost 
all  recollection. 

From  the  throes  of  an  opiate  sleep  before  the  flower  of  the 
day  was  gone,  I  awoke  and  found  the  warehouse  on  fire.  The 
flames  were  shooting  in  a  thousand  spires  and  coiled  and  sprang 
against  the  roof,  the  walls  and  the  floor.  To  remain  where  I  was, 
was  to  be  burned  to  cinders.  The  catastrophe  was  inevitable. 
I  must  perish  in  a  lingering  misery,  of  all  miseries  the  most 
appalling,  and  with  the  bitter  aggravation  of  perishing  unknown, 
worthless,  useless.  I  knew  that  I  was  "broke"  and  that  the 
world  has  no  use  for  one  whose  pockets  are  empty — his  day  is 
done,  and  he  might  as  well  be  dead.   Then  why  should  I  repine  ? 

Yet,  instinctively  I  indulged  in  a  Comanche  yell  more  now 
with  the  eagerness  of  hope  than  the  apathy  of  despair,  in  a 
voice  as  hard  as  Rhadamanthus,  in  abject  desperation. 

This  proved  to  be  a  fortuitous  occurrence.  It  was  like  the 
hand  of  God.  It  was  manna  dropped  from  Heaven,  and  it  saved 
my  bacon. 

There  is  no  distress  so  complete,  but  that  even  in  the  most 
critical  moments,  the  inexplicable  sunrise  of  hope  is  seen  in  its 
depths. 

And  on  what  mere  chance,  good  or  evil,  do  great  events 
depend  ? 

Thru  smoke  and  fire  rude  nesters  of  the  village  rushed  to  me, 
and  one  quick-witted  rube  shouted  an  order,  and  in  a  twinkling 
the  atmosphere  grew  electric  with  the  tension  of  high-pressure 
activity.  There  was  heard  a  clang  of  doors  and  the  weight 
against  my  body  became  lessened,  and  willing  workers  set  about 
frantically  shifting  the  bags.  Soon  a  sufficient  breach  was 
made,  and  I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  like  one  coming  to  the  surface 
after  a  long  dive.  In  a  riot  of  intoxicating  joy  I  staggered  forth 
from  what  threatened  to  be  my  tomb,  bubbling  over  with  grati- 
tude to  my  saviors  and  to  whom  I  owed  my  safety  in  a  most 
miraculous  manner.  With  my  eyes  glassy  with  unshed  tears,  I 
resolved  the  sense  of  service  rendered  me  in  mortal  distress  as  a 
sort  of  guerdon  of  riches  of  the  soul,  and  sought  the  outer  atmos- 
phere. My  mind  now  being  released  from  its  tension,  my 
premier  .impulse  was  another  "shot"  of  the  dope.  This  may 
seem  strange,  inasmuch  as  I  had  just  taken  a  "shot"  prior  to 
having  reclined  upon  the  bags ;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  the  morphine 
habit  grows  on  one  and  the  morphine  fiend  is  goaded  with  the 
heresy  that  it  is  necessary  willy  nilly.   Notwithstanding  my  re- 


264 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


cent  experience,  I  maintained  the  emotional  stimuli  to  admin- 
ister it  hypodermically,  and  as  I  displayed  the  tools  and  the 
poison,  the  whole  company  of  bonehead  eoliths  looked  at  me 
onion-eyed  as  they  regarded  the  strange  experiment  with  eyes 
bugged  out  and  mugs  agape ;  and  my  hands  trembled  as  I  over- 
heard one  of  their  number  mumble  in  subdued  monotone  some- 
thing about  the  grandeur  of  pagan  philosophy. 

The  old  warehouse  was  now  under  the  influence  of  a  dense 
and  vivid  mass  of  ungovernable  fire,  and  in  this  rude,  one-horse 
dub  hamlet,  there  being  no  protection  against  its  ravages,  it 
burned  to  the  ground  while  the  astonished  boneheads  stood  idly 
round  in  silent  and  pathetic  wonder;  but  as  the  smoke  finally 
ascended  over  its  ashes,  I  clearly  distinguished  in  its  curls  the 
distinct  outline  of  a — hypodermic  syringe. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


WAS  IT  EXCUSABLE  HOMICIDE? 


"The  great  king  of  kings 
Hath  in  the  table  of  His  law  commanded 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder.    *    *  * 

****** 
*    *    *    por  fa  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  that  break  his  law." 

— King  Richard  III. 

Altho'  eleven  suns  have  passed  down  the  laddered  way  of 
gold  and  eleven  pale  moons  have  breathed  their  orisons  to  the 
chaste  stars,  their  confessors,  his  youthful  face  haunts  me  to  this 
hour.  If  he  came  from  distinguished  lineage,  was  a  pampered 
son  of  some  noblesse  oblige,  or  rose  from  the  abysmal  slums,  he 
was  still  some  mother's  boy.  As  I  chew  the  bitter  fruit  of  mem- 
ory and  muse  upon  the  proposition  that  he  would  be  now  a 
living,  sentient  being,  a  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature,  but 
for  my  inexcusable  act,  an  act  albeit  prompted  by  the  most 
obliging  motives,  I  shudder  as  I  kneel  at  the  cross  where  I  seek 
for  hope  in  the  shadow  of  the  altar  which  restores  peace  to  my 
soul.  As  a  conscience-stricken  sinner  confesses  to  the  Holy 
Father,  I  fall  upon  my  knees  and  lift  my  clasped  hands  to  God. 
I  seek  thus  with  tears  and  prayers  to  smother  down  the  crowd  of 
hideous  images  and  sounds  with  which  my  memory  swarms 
against  me,  and  still,  between  the  petitions,  the  ugly  face  of  my 
iniquity  stares  into  my  soul.  For  my  crime  no  earthly  court  can 
decree  damnation,  but  the  query  forces  itself  unremittingly  upon 
me :  ' '  Will  I  jump  the  life  to  come  V  I  muse :  ' '  In  the  law  of 
God  is  there  any  statute  of  limitations  for  one  whose  hands  are 
spotted  with  the  crimson  badge  of  blood  V  I  ask  myself :  ' '  Is 
this  deed  chronciled  in  Hell  V  "  Has  the  recording  angel  writ- 
ten down  the  crime  of  murder  against  my  soul  in  letters  as 
durable  as  eternity?" 

And  the  mournful  reflection  is,  that,  disregarding  theological 
dogmas  and  ethical  rules,  I  deserted  that  outcast  corpse  alone  to 


266 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


the  frantic  savagery  of  preying  varmints,  a  grave  on  the  bosom 
of  God's  wide  earth,  a  place  where  no  visitors  come,  no  flowers 
are  strewn,  no  tears  are  wept.  The  thought  is  more  than  I  can 
bear  and  its  memory  shall  stick  with  me  until  the  earth  shall  open 
at  my  side  and  my  last  hour  has  come.  And  yet  I  consider  it  an 
act  as  well  might  cleanse  the  stain  of  real  sin  from  the  soul.  And 
I  believe  that  man,  altho'  fallen  into  sensuality,  is  never  quite 
without  the  moral  sentiment.  If  it  be  an  act  of  euthanasia,  I  am 
as  innocent  as  a  child  crooning  a  plaintive  lullaby  to  its  doll,  and 
I  am  ready  to  stand  at  the  divine  bar  for  a  thousand  murders 
such  as  this.  And  I  believe  that  there  is  no  crime  but  has  some 
time  been  a  virtue,  and  further,  that  crimes  are  but  mistakes.  If 
it  be  not  excusable  homicide,  then  by  Saints  Peter  and  Paul  there 
is  no  Gehenna  deep  enough  and  hot  enough  to  receive  my  guilty 
and  craven  spirit,  0,  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict 
me ! 

I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  like  many  other  old  men,  feel  like 
making  confession  of  a  moral  sin.  It  may  afford  the  public  that 
mixture  of  the  whimsical  and  tragic,  which  is  the  most  stimu- 
lating to  the  popular  imagination. 

As  I  drilled  along  the  steel  metals  of  the  Salt  Lake,  San 
Pedro  and  Los  Angeles  railway  one  morning  which  breathed  the 
incense  of  summer,  and  just  as  the  lightening  east  was  tremulous 
with  the  faint,  fluttering  wings  of  flying  dawn,  on  a  pedestrian 
journey  to  a  haven  in  southern  California  laved  by  the  tepid 
waters  of  the  sunlit  Pacific,  my  sensibilities  were  suddenly 
startled  by  hearing  the  most  unearthly,  soul-harrowing  sound 
that  ever  broke  the  silence  of  man  or  nature.  It  was  a  wailing 
cry  like  that  of  a  sinking  soul,  and  it  presumably  emanated  from 
some  being  in  an  agony  of  pain. 

The  sky  was  so  clear  that  it  seemed  as  just  having  been 
washed  by  the  angels — so  clear  that  a  single  strand  of  cobweb 
dangling  before  one  could  readily  be  distinguished  by  the  naked 
eye,  and  besides  this,  a  delicate  odor  was  being  borne  on  the 
wings  of  the  morning  breeze. 

As  I  saw  no  one,  I  stood  bewildered,  my  hair  on  end  in  a 
kind  of  ecstatic  delight. 

Continuing  this  pedal  mulling,  I  soon  beheld  the  certain  form 
of  a  person  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  embankment  to  my 
right.  The  subject  was  evidently  writhing  in  mortal  terror  as  he 
gesticulated  lamentations  of  distress  upon  the  rocks  below.  I 
could  discern  as  I  came  closer,  that  his  hands  were  saturated  with 
blood  as  he  lay  prostrate  there,  and  in  general  he  presented  the 
verisimilitude  of  a  soul  in  the  throes  of  both  mental  anguish  and 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


267 


intense  bodily  pain.  He  was  shivering  from  his  arched  neck  to 
his  sensitive  haunches,  his  very  flanks  pulsating  with  terror. 

Overwhelmed  as  I  was  by  a  tide  of  cankering  fears,  I  sought 
his  side  without  delay.  As  I  came  up,  a  spasm  of  pain  crossed 
his  face  and  I  put  the  question  to  him  touching  the  cause  of  his 
lamentations,  and  his  only  answer  was  drowned  in  voicings  of 
general  distress.  As  I  pressed  him  for  details,  he  said  that  dur- 
ing the  gloom  of  the  night  he  had  been  violently  hurled  from  the 
top  of  a  passenger  coach  as  the  Los  Angeles  Express  dashed 
along  the  rails  at  furious  speed,  while  he  wooed  the  soft-eyed 
goddess  on  the  bosom  of  the  diner. 

To  support  the  theory,  I  readily  visualized  that  at  this  par- 
ticular point  along  the  route  there  was  a  tortuous  curve,  and  I 
fixed  in  my  mind's  eye  the  awful  impact  upon  the  great  blocks 
of  lava  below. 

On  the  instant  I  was  sunk  in  a  lethargy  of  mingled  wonder 
and  meditation.  A  blind  man  instantly  restored  to  sight  could 
not  wonder  more,  and  to  say  the  least,  the  situation  was  both 
novel  and  strange. 

Now,  by  the  favor  of  Providence,  during  my  many-sided 
career  I  had  snatched  up  some  superficial  smattering  of  plastic 
surgery,  medical  philosophy  and  experimental  psychology,  and 
this  fact  assisted  me  in  summing  up  the  diagnostic  phase  of  the 
case.  Consumed  with  curiosity  as  I  was,  I  therefore  commenced 
a  rather  perfunctory  examination  of  his  torso  and  limbs  with  all 
the  ease  of  a  practical  observer  and  an  experienced  man  of  the 
world,  and  I  satisfied  myself  that  he  had  sustained  a  compound 
fracture  of  the  left  leg,  a  single  fracture  of  the  right,  a  frac- 
tured ulna  of  the  right  arm  and  in  addition  to  this  a  survey  of 
the  intercostal  region  developed  two  smashed  ribs  on  the  left 
side.  Abrasions  of  the  skin  revealed  themselves  at  different  por- 
tions of  his  body,  and  his  flesh  was  torn  and  lacerated  about  the 
face.    His  silver  skin  was  laced  with  his  golden  blood. 

The  prodigal  was  not  over  the  jejeune  age,  and  to  my  aes- 
thetic susceptibilities  his  normal  features  would  be  of  a  rather 
elegant  caste.  The  first  silky  down  fringed  his  blushing  cheeks 
and  his  young  limbs  were  strong  and  brown,  and  all  together  he 
had  that  adolescent  freshness  'ere  the  world's  glad  youth  had 
touched  his  prime.  He  was,  according  to  Hippocrates,  in  the 
period  of  lusty  youth.  He  was  not  garbed  in  the  habiliments  of 
the  tramp,  nor  yet  did  he  reflect  the  hobo,  and  I  finally  cate- 
goried  him  after  some  visual  measurement  and  mental  resolving, 
as  one  temporarily  down  and  out  and  in  quest  of  new  pastures 
offering  inducements  consonant  with  his  whims,  and  that  he  had 
undertaken  to  annihilate  distance  by  the  unconventional  means 


268 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


employed  by  him  of  beating  his  way,  as  I  myself  had  chosen  to 
cover  the  miles  by  hayfooting  it  along  the  ties.  This  evidently 
is  what  forced  him  to  such  a  crazy  ride,  and  it  is  a  wonder  that  I 
had  not  availed  myself  of  such  means,  for  my  own  shipwreck  was 
due  to  having  become  a  booby  by  losing  at  cards  among  the 
knights  of  the  green  baize  and  tournament  j  ousters  in  the  mining 
camps  of  Nevada,  and  that  I  was  perforce  drifting  with  every 
wind  as  a  desert  rat  on  the  wide  sea  of  misery.  In  other  words,  I 
had  gone  out  for  wool,  and  had  come  back  shorn. 

In  this  point  in  the  physical  topography  of  the  state,  the 
prospect  was  yet  wild  and  uninhabited,  for  the  reason  that  here 
and  apparently  for  broad  expanses  about,  nature  afforded  no 
advantages  looking  to  fruitful  toil  to  the  husbandman,  and 
altho '  from  a  general  visualization  of  the  rugged  and  picturesque 
scenery  spread  before  the  gaze,  the  adaptation  to  industrial  min- 
ing seemed  practical  from  all  angles,  energies  in  this  direction 
were  nil.  And  furthermore,  the  country  had  undergone  such 
geological  changes  that  no  artificial  guano  seemed  potent  enough 
to  convert  it  to  fecundity.  It  was  as  barren  as  a  single  sex.  The 
whole  immensity  round  about  constituted  an  unclaimed  and  un- 
tamed desert.  A  simple  and  kindly  nature  brooded  o'er.  Its 
rusticity  was  genuine,  yet  there  was  a  charm  of  poetry  in  it. 
Silence  reigned  in  majesty  over  all  these  parts,  which  were  pos- 
sibly unknown  to  the  tax-collector.  It  was  truly  an  enchanted 
spot- — distressing  in  its  silent  desolation.  In  fact,  a  more  barren, 
dreary,  monotonous  and  uninviting  spectacle  never  stretched 
before  human  eyes. 

The  granite  took  on  itself  the  most  fantastic  shapes.  The 
baro,  bleak  cliffs  were  pictures  of  wild  and  barren  desolation  and 
hero  and  there  were  split  open  by  fissures.  There  were  a  few 
stunted  cacti,  devoid  of  plant  life  and  certain  repulsive  plants 
thaft  were  native  in  their  haggard  and  desert  beauty.  Craters  of 
old  world  volcanoes  abounded,  and  round  about  there  was  a 
dream  of  color,  a  play  of  ever-shifting  iridescent  hues  like  those 
on  a  pigeon's  breast.  The  entire  prospect  was  a  vista  of  treeless 
waste,  with  the  single  exception  of  these  poisonous  cactus  fungi 
and  the  low-growing  shrubs  here  and  there  pushing  forth  from 
this  natural  panorama — this  wilderness  of  rock  and  sand.  Due 
to  the  painful  aridity  of  this  God-forsaken  country,  God's  best 
and  greatest  gift  to  man,  water,  was  an  unknown  quantity,  and 
for  one  to  even  contemplate  wresting  from  the  vaults  of  nature 
this  matchless  nectar,  he  would  be  compelled  to  bore  thru  to 
China  before  it  gushed  forth.  It  looked  like  a  forgotten  corner 
and  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  earth. 

Among  the  varmints  peculiarly  indigenuous  to  this  terrestrial 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


269 


zone,  I  doubt  not  but  that  the  species  of  prodigious  spider  known 
as  the  tarantula,  had  his  natural  habitat  here,  and  that  the  centi- 
pede was  another  venom  of  the  desert  wastes.  The  golden  lizard 
of  inordinate  size,  with  jeweled  head,  the  very  genius  of  desolate 
stillness,  and  the  dreaded  Gila  monster  disported  themselves 
upon  the  ledges  and  in  the  treacherous  quicksands,  and  flat- 
headed  spectacled  vipers  and  big  diamond  backed  rattlers — bad 
medicine  in  hot  weather — as  well  as  other  pirates  of  the  hum- 
mocks, writhed  their  snaky  terrors,  coiled  their  vermicular 
bodies,  cast  their  sloughs  and  rolled  their  leaden  eyeballs  while 
the  hot  sun  blazed  in  his  tower  of  blue. 

The  whole  represented  the  Malpais  of  Nevada. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  region  thru  which  I  traveled 
at  that  time,  and  where  I  met  up  with  this  raving  and  disconso- 
late boy,  undergoing,  as  was  quite  apparent  to  me,  a  globe- 
trotting "rounder,"  the  agonies  of  hell,  the  tortures  of  the 
damned. 

With  aching  sides  and  quivering  nerves,  with  a  feeling  of 
weariness  pervading  the  marrow  of  his  bones  and  of  his  spine, 
he  called  out: 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,  kill  me  now,  and  put  me  out  of  this 
terrible  pain;  I  can't  move,  and  the  pain  is  awful  to  bear,"  he 
said  in  an  explosive  and  febrile  manner. 

These  exclamations  he  voiced  over  and  over  again  in  monoton- 
ous appeals,  addressed  to  me  and  to  the  Ascendant  God.  It  was 
quite  a  queer  and  dreadful  position  for  me,  and  I  quivered  with 
horror  and  stood  like  a  frozen  image  and  glared  at  the  sight. 
I  had  a  sense  of  vague  and  undefined  terror,  which  are  the  most 
appalling  to  the  imaginative  soul. 

As  he  tried  to  move  his  limbs,  his  distress  was  undoubtedly 
terrible,  and  I  commenced  to  apply  bandages  with  professional 
dexterity.  I  massaged  his  head  so  as  to  bathe  it  in  the  blithe 
air,  and  in  another  moment  he  fainted  dead  away. 

I  here  thought  of  the  trembling  immateriality,  the  mist-like 
transcience  of  his  seemingly  solid  body  wafted  to  inertia  by 
sudden  shock,  which  might  culminate  in  dissolution  before  my 
petrified  gaze. 

For  fully  five  minutes  he  lay  in  this  torpor,  while  I  fanned 
him  back  to  sentience  and  to  life.  Slowly  his  lips  quivered,  his 
breast  heaved  and  he  revived. 

Now,  in  truth  and  in  fact  here  was  presented  a  case  where  a 
morphine  addict,  such  as  I  was  at  the  time  with  body  and  soul 
anaestheticised  in  the  shackles  of  morphia,  might  play  the  Good 
Samaritan  role,  and  at  least  relieve  the  pain  which  was  obvious, 
and  which  I  had  reason  to  believe  was  the  direct  sequelae  of  the 


270 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


alleged  terrific  plunge  from  the  top  of  a  passenger  coach  thun- 
dering along  at  express  speed. 

Slowly  and  gradually  as  I  stood  there  a  plan  was  germinating 
in  my  mind  in  the  curious  automatic  way  in  which  plans  do 
form.  My  future  movements  were  decided  upon  without  my 
having  been  conscious  of  any  process  of  thought.  My  sense  of 
duty  and  my  conscience  warred  with  each  other  and  between 
these  contending  emotions,  whether  I  stood  in  the  smile  of  heaven 
or  not,  and  at  the  same  time  believing  that  God  was  abolished  in 
the  year  One,  I  was  fully  resolved.  One  ego  argued  with  the 
other,  and  never  did  I  realize  as  on  this  occasion  the  existence  in 
us  of  two  rival  personalities,  one  desiring  a  thing,  the  other  re- 
sisting, and  each  winning  the  day  in  turn.  A  man  must  be  in- 
finitely kind  and  above  all,  clear-  sighted  to  deal  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  childhood,  the  experience  of  man  and  the  subtlety  of 
the  savage.  I  formed  a  resolution,  therefore,  which  may  seem 
foolish,  yet  had  I  to  do  it  over  again,  I  believe  it  the  best  course 
open.  It  was  an  instinct  that  irresistibly  inclined  me  toward  one 
course.  My  scientific  and  accurate  mind  allowed  of  no  errant 
fancy,  and  above  all  I  knew  that  my  mind  was  conscious  of  rec- 
titude, and  all  of  these  at  once  decided  me  on  a  magnanimous 
course  of  conduct.  After  final  decision,  I  was  taught  that  there 
are  two  personalities  in  every  individual — one  which  does  things, 
while  the  other  stands  by  and  watches.  One  may  do  a  thing  even 
tho'  warned  by  one's  second  and  judicial  self  that  it  is  unwise 
or  wrong,  and  that  if  my  second  self  reproached  me  in  this  moral 
delinquency  in  so  concluding,  I  must  have  lost  my  self-respect 
in  so  doing. 

So  I  turned  to  my  subject  and  said:  ''Possess  yourself  in 
peace.  I  know  that  it  is  out  of  the  question  for  you  to  be  calm 
under  the  conditions.  In  your  case,  the  chances  of  life  and  death 
are  evenly  balanced.  Hence  I  believe  that  it  would  be  the  very 
apotheosis  of  innate  beneficence  and  in  accord  with  the  doctrine 
of  euthanasia,  a  doctrine  practiced  in  European  and  Asiatic 
countries  for  centuries,  to  administer  to  you  a  slug  of  medication 
to  which  I  myself  am  no  stranger,  so  that  you  may  thereby 
plunge  into  the  torpor  of  artificial  sleep,  which  will  at  least  be 
temporary  oblivion.  Therefore,  while  I  transport  you  to  the 
seductive  delirium  of  opium,  let  me  be  your  physician,  but  not 
your  executioner.  I  shall  now  give  you  a  'shot'  in  the  arm  and 
on  your  eyelids  let  me  crown  the  god  of  sleep.  Let  me  diffuse 
thru  your  general  circulation  the  elixir  of  life,  the  blessed  ano- 
dyne of  both  body  and  conscience.  Let  me  cure  both  mind  and 
body  with  the  same  prescription.    I  want  you  to  lose  yourself 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


271 


in  the  Nirvana  of  sleep,  the  blessed  relief  to  those  who  are 
sorely  tried." 

Between  his  sobs,  he  nodded  assent,  murmuring  something 
about  home,  sweet  home. 

Whereupon,  I  uncovered  from  an  unmentionable  portion  of 
my  clothing  the  morphine  salts  and  the  hypodermic  syringe 
secretly  cached  there.  I  boiled  in  water  poured  from  a  bottle 
which  I  invariably  carried  as  a  part  of  the  dope  impedimenta,  in 
or  out  of  desert,  one-fourth  of  a  grain  of  morphia  crystals,  the 
normal  adult  dose,  which  by  ocular  measurement  under  the  con- 
ditions could  not  be  pedantically  accurate,  and  I  drew  the  solu- 
tion into  the  hypodermic.  I  next  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his 
jumper,  caught  up  a  pinch  of  flesh  on  the  recumbent  arm,  and 
into  his  quivering  cuticle  I  suddenly  slipped  the  little  sting  of 
shining  steel  and  glass  and  injected  the  juice  of  the  poppy.  Then 
with  my  nimble  digits  I  smoothed  down  the  epidermis  at  the 
point  of  incision  and  the  usual  inflation  I  noticed  at  once.  All 
of  this  I  accomplished  with  the  applause  of  my  conscience. 

1 1  This  may  kill  you,  but  it  will  not  torture  you.  Like  cyanide, 
it  is  painless  to  mind  and  body,"  I  remarked  consolingly. 

Thru  the  dim  vista  of  time,  evidently  conscious  of  a  Samari- 
tan act,  I  can  hear  his  answer  now :  ' 1 1  wish  I  were  dead ;  send 
me  home." 

I  had  administered  to  him  the  poison  that  holds  out  its 
vampire  arms  to  destroy — the  poppy-seeded  draught  which 
brings  soft,  purple-lidded  sleep. 

My  protracted  habituation  to  narcotics  had  schooled  me  to 
the  therapeutics  of  the  case,  and  thus  it  was  with  unalloyed  in- 
terest that  I  maintained  unceasing  vigil  over  my  patient  as  I 
watched  the  insidious  liquid  creeping  drop  by  drop  thru  his 
veins.  As  a  confirmed  dopehead  I  knew  that  the  least  scruple 
of  an  overdose  meant  dissolution,  in  which  case  the  patient, 
being  incapable  of  bodily  locomotion,  would  lapse  primarily  into 
the  coma  of  blissful  somnolence  and  finally  into  the  rigid  arms 
of  death.  It  is  in  harmony  with  medical  philosophy  that  the 
subcutaneous  injection  of  morphia  carries  with  it  almost  instan- 
taneous effect.  It  is  a  postulate  that  the  essential  virtues  are 
quickly  disseminated  and  the  poison  is  conveyed  simultaneously 
with  the  blood.  I  had  not  long  to  wait,  therefore,  in  noting  the 
succeeding  phases  produced  by  the  injection.  First,  there  ap- 
peared the  unmistakable  signs  of  physical  exhilaration  and  men- 
tal clarification  in  my  patient,  as  he  indulged  in  banalities  and 
insipidities.  He  became  a  trifle  loquacious  as  the  virtues  of  the 
drug  began  to  steal  slowly  over  his  senses.  So  far  as  physical 
pain  is  concerned,  any  manifestations  were  wanting  in  his  gen- 


272 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


eral  deportment.  He  recalled  the  past  and  suddenly  became 
optimistic  of  the  roseate  hues  of  fortune,  so  tightly  locked  in  the 
future.  He  seemed  en  rapport  with  the  stirring  impulses  of  a 
high  ambition.  In  his  fitful  fancy  he  dwelt  with  fascination  on 
visions  of  personal  distinction,  of  future  celebrity,  perhaps  even 
of  enduring  fame.  Evidently  he  had  high  resolves  and  daring 
thoughts,  and  was  blessed  with  that  tenderness  of  soul  which  is 
sometimes  linked  with  an  ardent  imagination  and  a  strong  will. 

Thru  it  all  remorseless  time  wore  on,  and  as  is  the  case  with 
those  not  tolerated  to  the  drug,  there  appeared  here  the  semi- 
delirium  of  feverish  intoxication  which  burned  his  brain.  It 
was  as  if  Numidian  javelins  pierced  thru  and  thru  his  wild  and 
whirling  brain  and  his  nerves  thrilled  like  throbbing  violins  in 
rythmic  pulsation.  Finally  as  his  eyelids  closed  down,  I  con- 
cluded that  he  became  a  prey  to  the  maleficent  power  which  acts 
relaxingly  upon  us  by  the  fluid  circulating  thru  our  nerves,  and 
his  whole  frame  seemed  gradually  to  experience  a  dissolving 
process.  He  must  have  felt  the  anguish  of  these  throes  passing 
thru  him  in  waves  and  the  cliffs  and  rocks  and  the  broad  expanse 
itself  to  surge  to  and  fro  in  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

His  orbs  were  now  tightly  lidded. 

He  apparently  drifted  into  strange,  vague  dreams  such  as 
morphia  produces.  He  was  perhaps  dreaming  of  that  tomorrow 
which  awaits  us  all,  and  in  which  is  hidden  that  mystic  perhaps 
which  places  us  all  on  an  equality. 

I  know  not  why  I  attempted  to  awaken  him  if  he  were  really 
asleep,  but  as  I  did  so  by  the  usual  lateral  and  downward  passes, 
I  found  that  he  was  beyond  question  locked  in  the  most  rigorous 
hour  of  slumber.  He  seemed  to  sleep  as  soundly  as  the  slumber- 
ing Amaryllis.  There  was  no  abeyance  of  the  will  under  the 
mesmeric  manipulations  and  I  let  him  sleep  on.  Yet  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  strained  feeling  of  expectancy  which  was  painful,  as 
I  watched  the  ever-changing  panorama  conjured  up  by  his  evi- 
dently delirious  brain,  for  he  was  certainly  in  the  magic  land  of 
sleep  with  its  attendant  dreams  and  visions  produced  by 
morphia,  where,  amid  many  shimmering  and  shifting  wonders 
of  darkness  and  light  the  palace  of  vision  stands  uplifted,  stately 
and  beautiful,  with  golden  doors  set  open  to  the  wanderer,  en- 
chanted precincts,  a  million  halls  of  marvel  as  yet  unvisited 
under  a  dome  which  seemed  of  crystal  lit  with  fire.  He  was 
reveling  in  the  scenes  that  had  heaped  upon  him  all  the  horrid 
sensations  that  a  piece  of  opium  can  produce. 

As  for  my  own  sensibilities  at  this  time  I  was  transported  to 
a  delirium  of  pensive  speculation  as  I  resolved  in  my  mind  the 
possibility  of  an  overdose.    I  quivered  in  marble  fear  in  every 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


273 


limb,  and  to  support  my  jaded  senses,  I  jabbed  the  hypodermic 
into  the  tissues  of  my  own  arm.  Shortly  thereafter,  I  must  have 
absorbed  the  contagion,  for  in  another  moment  I  was  casting 
about  for  some  shady  alcove  whereon  to  catch  some  wild  and 
bitter  sleep.  I  stretched  myself  upon  a  boulder  and  soon  gave 
myself  up  luxuriously  to  dreams  of  youth  and  love  and  former 
days. 

Sleep  killed  my  eyes,  and  this  same  sleep  finally  killed  my 
patient.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  in  a  region  where  unseen  foun- 
tains perpetually  played,  and  fairy  guitars,  struck  by  invisible 
fingers,  sent  forth  an  eternal  harmony. 

How  long  I  dozed  I  can  but  conjecture,  but  it  must  have  been 
an  hypnotic  trance,  for  when  I  lay  down  the  sun  was  beating 
down  with  insufferable  effulgence  on  the  glistening  sand,  and 
when  I  awoke  the  long  red  fires  of  the  dying  day  burned  in  the 
West.  The  events  of  the  day  again  came  before  me  strangely 
mingled  with  those  of  my  past  life  and  with  others  of  which  I 
could  form  no  waking  resemblance. 

The  first  impulse  directed  attention  to  my  sleeping  patient, 
and  as  I  appeared  at  his  side  I  was  horrified  at  the  horrible 
passiveness,  the  dreadful  inertness  of  his  body,  and  I  thought 
that  the  shadow  of  death  began  to  cross  his  life. 

Of  my  own  feelings,  now  it  is  folly  to  speak.  In  the  hope 
that  I  might  get  some  ante  mortem  utterance  from  the  subject, 
I  again  made  the  mesmeric  passes  in  an  endeavor  to  awaken  him, 
tut  there  was  absolutely  no  susceptibility  to  the  magnetic  in- 
fluence. 

I  became  oppressed  with  dark  thoughts  and  I  gave  myself 
over  to  an  agony  of  shame  and  self-reproach.  My  eyes  smarted 
with  the  moisture  of  shame  and  the  scarlet  blood  dyed  my  neck 
and  temples.  I  bent  my  forehead  to  the  dust  in  a  delirium  of 
ascending  thoughts  as  I  asked  the  Madonna  for  guidance.  Re- 
morse gnawed  at  my  soul  as  my  conscience  accused  me  of  be- 
lieving in  the  heresy  of  Cain  in  thus  letting  my  brother  go  to  the 
devil  in  his  own  way.  Suddenly  in  the  top  fit  of  my  delirium, 
I  was  struck  thru  the  heart  with  a  cold  thrill  of  terror.  My  love 
of  life,  a  life  albeit  surrounded  with  phantoms,  darkened  with 
delirium,  enfeebled  by  vice  and  misery,  was  screwed  to  the  top- 
most peg.  Now,  by  the  wrath  of  my  eternal  soul,  should  I  flee 
from  the  scene  like  a  stricken  deer  and  let  this  foul  deed  smell 
above  the  earth  with  a  carrion  man  groaning  for  burial? 

The  air  was  red  about  me.  The  very  stars  seemed  to  dart  at 
me  fiery  tongues  of  flame. 

A  great  shudder  shook  the  limbs  of  my  patient.  His  lips 
parted,  showing  a  glimmer  of  pearly  teeth  within,  in  the  ghostly 


274 


THIRTY  YEARS  IN  HELL 


semblance  of  a  smile.  His  features  were  pallid.  The  contorted 
agony  of  their  last  expression  was  already  freezing  under  my 
very  gaze  into  a  marble-like  rigidity.  He  looked  ghastly.  The 
eyelids  rolled  back,  and  the  glassy  orbs  stared  at  me  with  a  fixed 
and  pertinacious  solemnity. 

Was  this  the  hideous  skeleton,  DEATH?  Was  it  grisly 
DEATH,  with  chill  and  nipping  frost? 

I  placed  my  hand  on  his  chest.  There  was  no  resistance.  His 
body  was  absolutely  soft  and  limp.  It  was  like  pressing  a  saw- 
dust doll.  I  then  put  into  execution  the  unerring  test  of  the 
steel  needle  into  the  flesh  and  having  a  gambler's  mirror  with 
me,  I  applied  it  to  the  lips  and  nostrils.  There  was  no  resistance 
to  the  puncture  of  the  needle,  and  the  mirror  afforded  no  evi- 
dence of  respiration.  I  tried  to  draw  blood  from  the  arm,  but 
with  negative  results.    I  felt  his  pulse.    It  was  stone-still. 

He  was  dead. 

His  prayer  had  been  answered  and  he  had  gone  home.  Not  to 
that  home  fashioned  by  the  wisdom  of  man,  but  to  that  one  set 
apart  from  the  foundations  of  the  world,  for  the  wisest  as  well 
as  the  meanest  of  His  creatures. 


t 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE  nirT 
DUE  RET 

DATE 

DUE  KLT 

NftO.2  dSDt 

NOV  7  h  */ 

SEP  2  8  1988 

— .  ';.  . 

 —  ' 

I  yj  «j  w; 

^  f 

*«# 

- 

^  j  ii  u 

Foffn  No.  513 

